Drawn Between These Gray Lines
by CastingWhiteShadows
Summary: "How do you survive a bullet to the head?" For three months, Sherlock has been fighting to solve the unanswerable question of Moriarty's supposed return. When Moriarty resurfaces, John engages him in a dangerous game to uncover what dark secrets Sherlock may be harbouring. Meanwhile, Sherlock looks to connect Moriarty's resurgence and Voldemort's resurrection.
1. Chapter 1 - The Unexpected Development

**Hello, everyone,**

 **Just a few words before we get into this. First things first, t** ** **his story will focus a lot on the _Sherlock_ characters themselves, but it will eventually include some of the characters from _Harry Potter and the Order of the Ph_ oenix, so watch out for them later on when they become important. Also, f**** **or the story to work, the timeline of _Harry Potter_ has been moved up 19 years in order to coincide correctly with the timeline of Sherlock, taking place during _Order of the Phoenix_ and after _His Last Vow_ (but ignoring the _Abominable Bride_ ). It will be in third-person for the majority of the story, save for John's blog entries every now and then. Enjoy the story!**

 **Alright, John, take it away.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1 - The Unexpected Development**  


 _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

 _4th March, 2015_

 _I know I really shouldn't be writing this right now, but it's something that's been on my mind for years and I need to get it off my chest. When my therapist Ella suggested I start a blog to talk about anything interesting that's happened to me, I always had to censor my work, as I have never been wholly truthful in my entries. Not everything interesting that's happened while I've been friends with Sherlock has been typed out for the world to see. If I had done that, I'd probably have been arrested, and would currently be serving a lengthy sentence in Azkaban. I don't think this post will ever see the light of day, but it feels better to write it. But if anyone ever sees this, I'm going to tell you the truth._

 _Magic is real._

 _I don't mean the cheap rabbit and hat tricks that those birthday magicians do for kids, I mean the turn teacups into tadpoles, flying broomsticks, and potion-making magic. No, I swear I'm not mad, despite all the time I've spent around Sherlock. I could get out my wand and make a vlog of this as proof, but again, I'd rather not get arrested. You'll just have to take my word on this and come to your own conclusions._

 _There's a secret community of witches and wizards living in Britain, centred in London. I think Sherlock had the magical community in Britain estimated to be around 15,000, so it's not like we're going to rise up and take over things. We like to keep quiet, which is why you've never heard of us. We have our own school, bank, shops, and bars. Most witches and wizards stay in the magical community their whole lives, never interacting with the Muggle – that's what wizards call non-magical people – world. However, there are a few from that community that venture out from that secluded world, like me. But my parents were non-magical, as well as my sister Harry, so it wasn't as though there was anything to keep me in that world after I graduated and my school friends died in a wizarding war. But that's a story for another time._

 _All of the adventures I've had with Sherlock that I've written on my blog were actually slightly different in reality. Even the first time I visited our flat I had to omit some descriptive detail. It was still a mess, like I said in my earlier entry. Papers everywhere, experiments festering in every corner, and that skull of his 'friend' sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. I didn't mention that cauldrons littered the table in the kitchen; one was bubbling with sludge that was a concerning gray, permeating the flat with an odd metallic smell, and the other a disturbing bogey colour. He had a jar with a pickled Cornish pixie sitting out on the counter, just as you please. The dishes were cleaning themselves in the sink (though I learned later that was because Mrs. Hudson had charmed them to do that as Sherlock wasn't going to do it himself). Honestly, with the state the flat was in, he was lucky that he didn't just pick up a random Muggle off the streets and ask them to be his roommate. So I chastised him for that, since he would have been breaking magical law if he had told a Muggle about magic. I didn't know back then, but clever, bloody Sherlock Holmes had deduced I was a wizard back at the hospital. Something about knowing that 'the dimensions of my inside pocket of my jacket weren't conducive to carrying a gun,' but how he made the jump from that to me having a wand, I don't know. I'd have to ask Sherlock again._

 _It was in the week after I moved into 221B that I realized that Sherlock's magical abilities hadn't really manifested themselves at all. I had been using magic around the flat a lot; it was nice to have a roommate and a landlady who wouldn't have a fit if the teapot starting pouring tea by itself. Mrs. Hudson, the saint, knows every cleaning spell known to wizardkind and helped keep the flat compliant to minimum health code. But in all that time I never saw Sherlock with a wand, or do any magic for himself. He was a genius potioneer; I may have achieved a respectable E in my N.E.W.T.s in the subject, but that man could brew anything if he put his mind to it. I wouldn't be surprised if he somehow happened upon the cure for cancer just because he was bored one day. Potions is a physical subject, and any person, magical or non-magical, could certainly be a dab hand at it. Like Sherlock said,"Potions is merely poorly understood chemistry."_

 _The lack of magic-wielding ability, coupled with the fact that I did not remember a Sherlock Holmes attending Hogwarts in Ravenclaw (House of the intelligent – honestly, could you see him anywhere else?), I assumed he was a Squib, a non-magical born in a magical family. I had never seen a Squib besides the gross and cantankerous caretaker at school, but I knew they were looked down upon in magical society, usually opting to live in the Muggle world to actually do something with their lives instead of living as second-class citizens in the magical world. I never said anything to him about it; as I understood it from school, it was embarrassing to mention._

 _The first time the subject arose was after the Blind Banker case. Until then I had occasionally used magic to help with cases, but not too much mind you, I still had to keep it secret after all. A simple unlocking spell if Sherlock's lock-picking skills were taking too long with a particularly stubborn lock, or a silencing charm on our shoes if we were sneaking around where we weren't supposed to be. Anyway, Greg Lestrade from Scotland Yard had called us up, asking if we were interested in tracking down a thief that had been targeting elderly women. Sherlock was bored enough, thank goodness, and he tracked down the thief later that night to an unused warehouse. The only snag was that as the thief tried to escape, he smashed into a toolbox, and something dark swirled about, only to form into a giant spider of all things. Apparently our thief had an extreme case of arachnophobia, and he scrambled back to us without any hesitation to cower. When I stepped up to the spider, it immediately transformed into Sherlock, dead on the floor._

 _"Just a Boggart," I called back, and I dispatched it with a lazy_ Riddikulus _. We still had a quivering mess of a man on our hands, which worried me. Doing magic in front of Muggles was very illegal, but I didn't know what to do with him, and I voiced this to Sherlock._

 _Sherlock was busy trying to keep the man's hands from his coat, but gave a solution. "Memory charm, obviously."_

 _His solution didn't help, because I responded with, "I was always rubbish with memory charms." And I was. Back during the wizarding war, when I attempted a memory charm on a Muggle I erased five days of memories instead of five minutes. At that, Sherlock roughly pushed the man at me, and snatched my wand from my fingers, holding it deftly in the man's face. I didn't see how that would help; Sherlock was a Squib, and no matter how hard he tried, the wand wouldn't respond to him. Sherlock didn't like it at all when I told him that. He speared me with a scathing look, something I had only seen him direct at Anderson. He spoke clearly without hesitation, but his voice was thick with annoyance. "_ Obliviate _," he said._

 _The man's eyes slid out of focus, and he relaxed into a dreamy state. There was no doubt that the spell worked. Sherlock tossed the wand at me as I stared at him, mouth agape like an idiot. "I never said I was a Squib," he said as he strode past me, briskly walking to the exit._

 _I never fully understood why, but from that moment onward, magic was more commonly performed in the flat. Sherlock often stole my wand, mostly to set a certain footstool on fire when he was bored, which annoyed Mrs. Hudson to no end. Eventually it got to the point where I had to dismantle the smoke detector simply to get silence during the interludes between cases. Occasionally something would fly across the flat into Sherlock's hand, which impressed me the first time I had seen it, especially since he performed it wandless. For all the times I've seen him do magic in the last few years, I've never seen him perform it with his own wand. He's quite fond of mine for the complex spells I've seen him cast, or he just snaps his fingers for the small ones. Sherlock was definitely a wizard, but his lack of a wand bothered me. It was usually the symbol of a wizard who was expelled from school, or broke the law to a degree that his wand was forcibly taken from him and snapped. And yet, he's never said anything, and I've never asked. I trust him enough that if it was important, he would tell me._

John paused for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keyboard of his laptop as he reread the last sentence he typed. He frowned at it, and was quite tempted to backspace the line and replace it with, _I've been friends with him for over five years, and you would think he'd trust me enough to tell me_. He sighed heavily. There were many things he didn't know about Sherlock Holmes; his childhood was rarely ever mentioned - and if it was it was usually in the form of vague comments from Mycroft when he decided drop by 221B to berate Sherlock for something- but never why he was without his own wand. From slips over the years, and those were far and few between, John gathered that Sherlock had attended Hogwarts, but not what year he attended. John ruffled his hand through his hair in annoyance. He knew the expulsion thing was unlikely, as he was sure that would have been mentioned in the papers.

 _Mycroft could be keeping it hostage as a punishment for Sherlock_ , he mused. He had a brief thought of Mycroft happily locking the wand away from Sherlock in a safe guarded by Britain's finest before shaking his head. _God, I sound like Anderson with his crazy theories on how Sherlock survived the Fall_. He shut his laptop with a snap at the same moment the toilet flushed in the ensuite. His wife, Mary, waddled out of the bathroom, her right hand resting lightly on her very pregnant stomach as her left hand shut the door behind her. She rolled her eyes at her husband lounging on the bed. "I will be so happy when this one is out of me," she said, gesturing to her stomach. "Morning sickness was bad enough, honestly, but I'm so sick of peeing all the time! I can barely get through an episode of a show before I have to dash to the toilet."

John smiled. "It's nearly nine months now. Not much longer."

"Hmm, I know." She flopped into the bed beside John, propping herself up on two pillows. "Not soon enough if you ask me." Her hand ghosted over the laptop's surface. "Were you writing a new entry on your blog? You haven't written one in months, not since. . . Christmas." Mary's voice trailed off with a fading trace of guilt as she saw John wince slightly. She lifted her hand from the laptop and gave his a quick squeeze.

"It's not really anything I would post, just something that's going to exist as a document on my computer as I try to figure some things out. I haven't written a blog entry in months because nothing interesting has happened in months. Mycroft is keeping Sherlock under strict lockdown as punishment for the Magnussen debacle, so it isn't as though I can pop my head into Scotland Yard when I'm bored to ask for something to do," he said shortly, but his frustration was not directed to Mary. She studied his face, knowing exactly where it stemmed from.

A little under three months before, Sherlock had been investigating Charles Augustus Magnussen, nicknamed the 'Napoleon of Blackmail' by the consulting detective himself. John loathed to think of the sociopathic newspaper owner who had him kidnapped and nearly burned alive in a bonfire, and threatened Mary with knowledge about her past. In some aspects John hated Magnussen more than he did Moriarty. Moriarty, as insane and dangerous as he was, still followed his own twisted code, and was at least cordial. Magnussen was different, taking extreme pride in tormenting his victims for the sheer pleasure of it, ignoring any and all social niceties that most people were ingrained with, simply because he believed himself above everyone else. John nearly broke the Statue of Secrecy when Magnussen urinated in the fireplace at 221B; every fibre of him was sorely tempted to curse the Dane, and he was only held back by a flick of Sherlock's fingers telling him not to.

John rubbed his face roughly. "It's a right mess. As much as I hated Magnussen, Sherlock blew it out of proportion by shooting him. He nearly got himself exiled-" Mary opened her mouth to comment, but John plowed through the sentence before she could speak, "and don't you lie to me and tell me he would be fine, because I know that even Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes wouldn't have lasted long out in Eastern Europe. I was in Afghanistan, I know what a hell hole it can be in those countries, and I was _lucky_ I came back."

Mary did nothing to deny his claims, but turned up the corner of her mouth slightly. "He did it for us, John," she insisted. "For a self-proclaimed sociopath, he sure knows how to sacrifice himself for others." She rested her hand on her stomach, staring hard as though she could see their unborn daughter. "Magnussen would have never let us free, no matter what you bribed him with. I know you didn't look at the memory stick I offered you, and I will never not be thankful for that, but if he let slip anything, I would have been ruined. Sherlock's brother would have tried to incarcerate me at the very least."

John let that last line go unchallenged. He gladly shared a lot with his wife, magic, tales from school, and all of his adventures with Sherlock, but there were darker memories from both wars he participated in that even he didn't want to face just yet, and he accepted that there would be things that she would never fully elaborate on. "Yes, but for as big as that brain of his is supposed to be, there were many better ways to go about dealing with Magnussen. A memory charm would have been the best. But no, he's Sherlock Holmes, he has to make a big show of it, so he goes and does that. And look where it's gotten him."

"Has he messaged you lately? Or has Mycroft banned mobile privileges again?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he had," John snorted. "I don't think Mycroft realized how difficult Sherlock would be confined to a small space for long periods of time. It was bad enough at the flat when we went without a case for a few days. Last I heard Mycroft took away his laptop during a video call with Greg after he found out Sherlock had taken a knife to his walls out of boredom."

"So that was after Sherlock found a revolver and blew apart a chunk of Mycroft's fireplace," Mary chuckled. John laughed along with her, their amusement echoing slightly in the otherwise quiet room. Mary rolled over to her side and shifted closer to John. He placed his hand gently on her stomach. "You would think," she said, her smile still filled with mirth, "that the British Government could think of a better punishment for Sherlock over the Magnussen issue than to give him house arrest at Mycroft's. I think it's more of a punishment to Mycroft than it is to Sherlock."

"I think that was the plan, really, for Mycroft letting his brother kill a very influential mogul in the world, he needed punishment too. I swear sometimes Mycroft acts like a handler more than anything. I haven't had a message from Sherlock in days, but I imagine they're driving each other up the walls as usual." Which was true. Whenever Sherlock was allowed correspondence with the outside world, it was either to connect to Lestrade to solve cases, or to complain to John of whatever misdeed Mycroft had performed to Sherlock of the late. " _I merely wanted to test the average extinguishing times of African blackwood and ebony. It is not as though Mycroft was ever going to use the carvings, and it's his own fault I'm this bored. He's the one that keeps taking away everything I need to focus on Moriarty . . ._ "

Which was the whole point of Sherlock's imprisonment with Mycroft the last few months. His return from exile came with strings; locate and deal with Jim Moriarty, if it was indeed him that broadcasted on all types of media the day Sherlock was to be sent to Eastern Europe. Sherlock had told John that it was Moriarty that had sent that message that day, if only to keep Sherlock tied to London. But since that day, there had not been even the smallest whisper of Moriarty's whereabouts. Separated from Sherlock as he was, John wasn't the best help, though he had checked out some of Moriarty's old known locations on Sherlock's behalf. Despite the fact the government knew that Sherlock was their best hope when it came to Moriarty, they still felt obliged to punish him in some way for his actions at Christmas. Any prison he'd be deposited in he would only start a riot, and being allowed house arrest at 221B would not bother him greatly ( _with the three weeks he once spent glued to the sofa as evidence_ , John mused). Mycroft was the solution, and Sherlock was watched at all times lest he manage to sneak out of the house. Again.

Mostly, John thought, Sherlock contacted him as often as he did – though it was never anything besides complaints or investigative requests – because he missed him. John knew that the month after he married Mary had been rough for Sherlock; after all, he had been briefly engaged and forcibly dragged out of a drug den, though not necessarily in that order. Sherlock would never admit any of that aloud, and as Mary had pointed out all those months ago, since he was like a child that had been feeling out of sorts because a baby sibling had come along, John would have to put some effort into showing that their friendship had not changed.

Before John could dwell on his friend's subtle whinging for attention further, a small, but strong nudge came from below his hand. Mary gasped softly in surprise. Both of their faces split into adoring grins as they glanced down to the source of the kick.

"Goodness, she has a wicked kick." Mary rubbed the spot where their daughter's foot had pressed and grimaced, though there was still a loving glow reflecting in her eyes. "She's going to be leaving me bruises if she doesn't come out soon."

"She's going to need a good kick considering she'll be growing up with someone like Sherlock in her life," John said, pausing for a moment to give Mary's stomach a tender look. "I can't imagine all the messes he'll drag her into when she's older."

"Like her father is any better," Mary quipped lightly. "Or her mother." She laid her head down on John's shoulder. "Let's face it, John, between the three of us, she's going to grow up just as mad as the rest of us."

John rested his cheek against Mary's hair, turning briefly to press a kiss there. There was silence for a few heartbeats before John offhandedly said, "When do you think we would tell Sherlock that we're not actually naming our daughter after him?"

"We? He's your best friend, so you can be the one to sit through his rant about why 'Sherlock is a suitable name for a girl'. I want no part of that."

"He was quite adamant on using his name for our daughter, wasn't he?" John smiled at the memory of Sherlock on the tarmac before he was supposed to leave to start his exile, attempting to keep the mood light by suggesting names for their child.

"Hmm, he was." Mary glanced to the bedside table, raising her eyebrow when she glimpsed the clock. "10 o'clock already? Don't you have to be at the clinic for tomorrow?"

"For the morning shift, yes."

"How about I get us a bag of popcorn, and we can settle down with the telly and a nice movie for the both of us." She waggled her eyebrows, daring him to refuse.

"Eating, this late?" John smirked. "I thought we were past the cravings?"

Mary smacked his arm. "Shush, you. I'm hungry, and I don't care what time it is, but I am getting something to eat." She started to pull away from him, but he tugged her back down. "Don't you get up, I'll get it for you," he said. John stood up from the bed, wincing slightly when his bones cracked as he stretched. As he was walking to the bedroom door, his mobile, which was placed next to his wand on the bedside table, pinged. John returned to the bed, sitting on the edge as he picked up the device and looked at the message on the screen.

 _Mass murder in Vauxhall. Interested? – SH_.

"Speak of the Devil," John muttered. Mary nodded to herself at that, immediately catching on to who sent the message. His fingers flew across the screen as he typed a response.

 _Aren't you still under house arrest?_ John replied.

"Who died this time?" Mary asked casually, as though she was merely asking for the weather.

John looked up from the screen to meet Mary's eyes. "How did you –"

"Oh, both you and Sherlock get the same look plastered on your face." Mary gestured at him lazily. "You're both like excited children on Christmas. All bright eyes and manic energy."

The phone pinged again. _Underpass where Dzundza hid. Meet me in 30 minutes. –SH._

"Mary, there's been a-" John started, but Mary cut him off again. "Go on, then," she said, making shooing motions to the door. "Go have fun with Sherlock. Goodness knows that you've been bored out of your mind on nights like these. It's not right in the world unless you're chasing after your mad friend and even madder villains." She winked, picking up the remote on the bed and switching on the telly.

In a flurry of excited movement, John crammed his mobile into his jeans pocket and snatched his wand off the shelf. He dashed to her side of the bed and gave her a sweet, parting kiss. "Thanks, Mary."

Mary gave his arm a pat before he turned away to the closet, on the hunt for a jumper to help protect him from the winter cold. She flicked through several channels absentmindedly as she heard hangers scraping and clothes being pulled. "Why don't you put on your nice school scarf?" she called without looking away from the baking show she had settled on. John emerged from the closet, tugging a tan jumper over his head. She flicked her eyes over his attire briefly. "The red and gold would go really nice with your . . . brown look you always have going on," she smirked.

John pulled dark socks from the drawer and slipped them on one foot while awkwardly jumping on the other. "First it was the moustache, now my dress sense, is there anything else I need to know that I've been apparently doing wrong?" he said, but his voice was light.

"Oh, that's a list for later," she laughed. "Now go and find out what's important enough to manage to get Sherlock out of his prison."

As John left the room, his answer carried back to her. "I bet you Mycroft finally got sick of him."

* * *

It was sometimes odd to think that Mycroft Holmes was indeed human, and not some otherworldly creature who needed no sleep, simply existing to watch over his brother while simultaneously running the country without stopping to take a calming breath. It seemed hard to imagine that someone like Mycroft did not only exist in his room in Diogenes, or gracing government conference rooms, twirling that bespoke umbrella of his. He did have to take a pause in life, despite his supposed superiority over the others that populated the Earth, required sleep as anyone else – albeit was used to less than the customary eight hours – and as Sherlock loved to point out, required food just the same. Thus it was safe to correctly assume, although it was not used often, that Mycroft owned a house with a normal bed and kitchen.

It was such a house that Sherlock Holmes was currently trapped in. Like Mycroft, the house seemed to ooze professionality and a sense of aloofness. Elegant were all the antique carvings that adorned every inch of the space, from its crown moulding to the chairs that sat in each room. Impressive and intimidating was the front of the house; the brown bricks may have been slightly chipped, but the small iron gate blocking the rest of London from its doorsteps was ferocious and the oddly placed chimneys made it look as though it had horns, if you looked at it at a certain way. Children would call it the Demon House, and the man who called it home was just as cold as the ninth circle of Hell the house could have come from.

The parlour of this house had been taken over by its unwilling tenant. Presently this man lay on his back in the centre of the red-carpeted room, dressed in a blue bathrobe over thin, striped jim-jam bottoms and a holey white top. His eyes were squeezed shut in concentration, and his lips traced the words he spoke in his mind. His unruly dark curls were in need of a brush, his skin was paler than usual from his three-month confinement; overall, his entire being screamed at being held from solving cases throughout London, one of the only passions worth pursuing, in his mind.

Besides the sprawled consulting detective on the floor, his mark had been left around the rest of the room as well. The stone fireplace in the room was currently unlit, but soot surrounded the gate, hinting that a rather large fire had recently been held there. The fireplace mantle would have been a beautiful addition to the room, complementing the clear, well-kept age of its adornments, but a sizeable chunk had been blown out of the top right-hand side of it. Debris from the mess still littered the floor, but one corner of the mess had been swept away, as though someone had tried to clean it up and then had been chased away.

On the right-hand side of the fireplace, a very large thought web had been constructed out of string and paper, all tacked into the expensive wallpaper. At the very centre was a picture of Jim Moriarty himself, the smug photo of him from the newspaper after the trial three years ago. Strings branched out from his face in a multitude of directions, some leading to other faces, some to locations, and others to hastily written questions on scraps of papers. All of the faces had violent red streaked over them; dead ends, all of them. The locations were treated the same way, after John had confirmed their uselessness. Red blotched every corner of the web, save for one question scratched into the wood and wallpaper itself above Moriarty's head: _How do you survive a bullet to the head?_

This is what Sherlock muttered over and over as he lay on the hard floor. His mind raced through different possibilities, discarding each nearly as quickly as he thought of them, as they all never seemed to fit the facts he had. Several thoughts tumbled forward in the room that he designated for Moriarty, driving to the forefront of his mind.

 _Fact 1: It was Moriarty himself on that roof. No doppelganger stood in for him as he taunted and played his game. I would have seen through that in an instant, and he as well if I had planned to survive the Fall as such. We know each other too well._

Sherlock went through every second of the conversation he had on the roof. He focused on Moriarty's parting sentence, right before he pulled the trigger. " _No. You're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me,_ " Moriarty had said, looking into his eyes as though he was seeing the other for the first time. As disturbing as he was, he was unequivocally right; he was Sherlock, if people like Mycroft, John, Molly, and the others had not kept him firmly of their side of angels and all things right. There was no denying who was really on that roof that day. It was him.

 _Fact 2: Moriarty shot himself. Irrefutable. The glimpse I was given of the gun was enough to for me to confirm its legitimacy. The consequent mess of a gunshot to the head matched with the ones I had previously seen._

Sherlock drove deeper into the construct of the memory he made in his mind palace, and once again found himself on the roof of Bart's. That odd mix of sun and cloud shone down on him, but that stiff breeze he knew had been present he did not feel at that moment. He stepped around the scene himself, clad in his present bathrobe ensemble. He spared a brief glance to his past self, frozen on the concrete edge of the rooftop in mid-conversation with John, who he knew to be on the ground below him. He turned away and stepped closer to his felled nemesis, his bare feet slapping lightly on the roof's smooth surface. It was well worth it to be a skilled Legilimens, if only to examine his memories like this.

He ignored the pool of blood as he hovered over Moriarty, peering at his figure intently. As he had thought, the gun itself was real. The shot through his head had been clean, he noted as he examined Moriarty's head from both sides, and very lethal. There was no faking a misshapen hole like that in the back of one's head. Sherlock straightened himself and restarted the memory with a wave of a mental hand. He kept his eyes on Moriarty's body as his younger counterpart finished his 'last words' to John and jumped. Moriarty did not as so much twitch. The memory ended itself there, but he managed to confirm Fact 2. And yet that didn't answer the ultimate query. He whirled around in a fury, the robe swirling around him dramatically.

 _How do you survive a bullet wound to the head?_

The question reverberated through his skull, taunting him, mocking his inability to answer it. With a growl, he violently tore his mind from the memory, and strode down the hallway of his mind palace, searching until he found the construct he built of 221B Baker Street, the home he missed so dearly. As he walked to his chair, he took in the garish red and gray carpet, cracked a small smile at the smiley in the rather gothic wallpaper, and flicked the stacks of papers overflowing on his desk. He settled in his chair, feeling comfortable, but not at home. The reddish chair in front of him remained empty, leaving an unwanted view of the kitchen. He paused for a moment, concentrating.

As though he had always been there, his mind's construct of John sat staring at him, expectantly. Fake-John was wearing the same outfit he had been when he first met him; black and white checkered button-down shirt, black trousers, and a loose-fitting, dark jacket. "So," he said. "It was definitely Moriarty on that roof."

Sherlock relaxed back into the chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. "Undoubtedly."

"He was dead," came another voice. Sherlock turned his head to the sofa, where Molly Hooper sat, wearing a white coat over a plain, white blouse and formal brown trousers, her hair simply pulled back. "I never saw his body," she continued, "nobody did. It disappeared. But what we just saw on the roof, that bullet wound should have killed him instantly."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her presence in the flat. Molly had been an integral part of that day; without her, he knew for a fact that he would not have pulled off faking his death successfully. And yet, it was not the first time she had emerged in his mind palace as an internal voice of reason. Even though the events were hazy, he remembered immediately after Mary had shot him in Magnussen's office, she was there, coaching him into finding the will to survive, while Moriarty's voice had been trying to lure him to death. The version of Molly he constructed stared at him seriously, determinedly, showing none of the hesitation that her real-life counterpart used to show when he first met her. It had taken a few years, but she had grown considerably before standing up for herself and speaking her mind. _Yes, Molly belongs here_ , he thought.

"It should have, yes," he agreed. "All the evidence points to it. But there's still _something_ missing." He waved one hand angrily, frowning deeply. "Yes, Moriarty shot himself. Blood and brain blowing out, all the fun, gory detail that I don't care about. By all accounts, he shouldn't have been able to do anything except rot in the ground, and yet we have him gallivanting around London again, leaving whispers and ghosts behind him."

"Polyjuice, maybe?" Fake-John asked. "Moriarty lookalike goes up on the roof, shoots himself, while the real one continues living on."

"No, no, no." Sherlock jumped out of the chair and starting pacing irritably, pulling at his hair. "No, you're not listening! It _was_ Moriarty on the roof. There was no switching around of people midway through the conversation, or anytime I turned my back. Moriarty threatened the lives of those around me with his own lips, not through a pager with the voice of a blind woman or a child. He was there, that was him seeing the climax of his game play out with his own eyes." As he paced, the robe rippled around him like a living blue shadow, ready to attack. "I am _missing_ something. You lot are _me_ , and you're not being helpful at all."

Fake-Molly watched his movements calmly, her serious expression never wavering. "What about magic? Could he have used magical means to survive that day?"

Sherlock paused in his pacing, staring at her for a moment, wondering why his mind had the only Muggle in the room speak so nonchalantly about magic. "Magic can't bring back the dead," he said bluntly, repeating what he had been taught since he could talk. "Everyone knows that."

Fake-John pulled a rolled-up newspaper from his jacket and tossed it on Sherlock's vacated chair. "I wouldn't be too sure."

Sherlock snatched the paper up and glanced at the front page. It was the Daily Prophet, the wizarding newspaper that he often stole from John moments after the owl delivered it in the mornings. Since John had moved in with Mary, Mycroft had arranged for Sherlock's own subscription despite his protests, if only to keep him updated about the goings-on of the world he had left. He remembered the headline that he was being shown. It was the one from late June of the previous year. _The Boy Who Lies?_ It read.

He looked up over the newspaper at Fake-John, who said, "Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter claim that Voldemort is back. A man that died 14 years ago came back from the grave. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

"This is different," Sherlock barked, tossing the paper roughly back on his chair and resuming his pacing. "Moriarty has shown me nothing that allows me to connect him in any way to magic. He had every opportunity to do so, walked into our flat and surely saw all the experiments I had running in the kitchen, and made no comment of it at all. He showed no signs of carrying a wand, and I would have remembered if he attended Hogwarts. He was the same age as me and would have been in the same year, but he never went."

"But, Sherlock," Fake-Molly said. Sherlock whirled to her, calming slightly at her tone. "Moriarty had me convinced that he was an awkward man from the IT department, sweet in every way possible, and perfectly happy to date." It was here her serious face cracked a bit, and sadness leaked through. Sherlock remembered how devastated Molly had been when she found out she had been used, and the memory of her downcast face and slumped posture bled through here. She continued, her voice only containing a fraction of the emotion she had had when she actually lived it. "He acted the part of a gay man so well he had you believing that was what he was. He had the world believe he was Richard Brook, and that you were a fake genius." A tinge of anger showed now in her voice, and Sherlock had to wonder what part of himself it stemmed from. "If he could do all that, how would you really know if he wasn't just tricking you again, and that he actually did have a magical trick up his sleeve?"

It was then Sherlock sat down again, carelessly tossing the newspaper to the floor. He wiped his hand down his face in exhaustion. "Voldemort is back, there's no doubt about that, but there is a lot of evidence present to allow me to assume he did not die on that Halloween night back in 2002 like most of the wizarding world believed. Though I can't imagine his existence would have been better than the lowest of ghosts." Sherlock paused, steepling his fingers under his chin once more, capturing the eyes of both Fake-John and Fake-Molly simultaneously. They both blinked at him, waiting. "But Moriarty surviving in the same way. . . " He continued slowly, drawling out the words. "Voldemort was a master of the dark arts, and had decades to perfect a way to cheat death. Moriarty has shown no knowledge of magic, let alone the dark magic that would prolong life." He shook his head. "As of right now, there are no facts, and I refuse to try to fit theories to nothing but speculation."

Fake-John leaned forward in his chair. "But you will keep it in mind, won't you?"

"Of course," he said. As much as he disliked to think that Moriarty had been hiding magic from him all of this time – it tarnished his reputation as a master of the art of deduction, after all – he could not help but think that it could be plausible that magic could be involved. He stood once more and walked over to the wall above the sofa where Fake-Molly sat. The string map he had created beside Mycroft's fireplace appeared there, complete to every small detail. Fake-Molly and Fake-John flanked his sides in a second.

"If Moriarty wanted to remain underground in a way you haven't considered, he wouldn't be using these people," Fake-Molly said, reaching out to pull down the photos marked with red.

Fake-John tapped his chin thoughtfully. "What if he created a new network? New people, people you've never had your eyes on?"

Sherlock stared at Moriarty's face as the nonessential photos were torn down, leaving a blank slate once more. "It's the only logical explanation," he agreed. "He's exhausted all old contacts. That web had clearly been destroyed, I made sure of it all those years ago. Obviously he has been able to source a new web of untraceables, but the question is, who? Were they able to assist him in surviving the bullet wound? Did he find a wizard to help him?" He ruffled his hair. "There's too many unanswered questions. I don't like not knowing. I need data."

"He needs to show himself, make his move," Fake-Molly said quietly, looking up at him. Her face was soft, tinged with sadness. Sherlock knew that Molly would be concerned firstly with the loss of countless lives that were always associated with Moriarty moving out from the shadows. It certainly showed on his construct of her now.

"What he does now will set the game." Fake-John's face hardened into the soldier that dutifully followed his friend into the battlefield. He crossed his arms stiffly, his shoulders set. "Whatever he emerges with, that will be how we solve the mystery of his survival."

The three of them stared at the lone picture on the dismantled string map, contemplating in silence, before a voice echoed through the flat, muddled as though someone was speaking through thick glass.

"Sherlock," the voice called, coloured with annoyance. The three looked up at the ceiling. "Come now, little brother, up you get."

All three twisted their faces in identical expressions of exasperation. "Oh, what does he want this time?" Fake-John spat, but in Sherlock's voice.

"Honestly, how can he expect us to get any actual work done when he's always bursting in like this?" It was rather disturbing hearing his baritone rumble past Molly's thin lips, but he could not help but agree with what his mind thought of the situation. Sherlock sighed heavily, and banished the constructs he created of his friends. The flat dissolved into a whirlwind of blurred colours as he pulled his mind from the deepest depths of his mind palace until the voice that had been calling to him became clear.

"Really, now, there are more comfortable places to lay, Sherlock. Your back would prefer it," Mycroft said with the perfect amount of disdain, from somewhere above him.

Sherlock remained with his eyes closed on the floor for a few seconds longer than he needed, if only to put off the inevitable painful conversation a little longer. He took the time to take a stock of where he was again. His fingers brushed against the thin carpet he lay on, feeling the hardwood floor underneath that. His back did seem to ache a bit from the position he was in; if he had to guess from the discomfort, he had been on the floor for at least three hours. Mycroft's foot tapped impatiently from beside his ear. He listened to the sound of the shoe lightly hitting the wood for a moment before concluding, as a distraction, that Mycroft had chosen to wear the Oxfords that day.

"Let's not be petty, Sherlock. You have to face me at some point, and I do not feel like indulging in another one of your little standoffs again," Mycroft said. Sherlock could perfectly imagine the expression of disapproval that was sure to be gracing his face at the moment; a slight, pouty frown, downcast face, and eyebrows pinched together. Sherlock opened his eyes, and when the dark spots cleared, he found the exact expression gazing down at him, as predicted.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped. He sat up slowly, shaking his head slightly to clear the dizziness that followed. Mycroft stepped back from him, brushing off imaginary dust from his black, pinstriped, three-piece suit, clutching that trademark bespoke umbrella. His hair had thinned a bit more since Christmas, and a small smattering of grey hairs could be found among the rest, but whether that was from dealing with the fallout from Magnussen or because he had to share residence with the likes of Sherlock Holmes, it was up to debate. He straightened his red tie as Sherlock stumbled to his feet, stretching to sort the pain his back (not that he would ever admit that to Mycroft). Sherlock moved to sit in one of the ancient, decorative wooden chairs that was closest to him. He returned Mycroft's cold look with his own scathing glare. "Well?" Sherlock demanded. "You never stop by for social visits, so something must have happened. Unless you've come to carry on about my failures in locating Moriarty again."

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and threw Sherlock a thin smile. "Really, Sherlock, has our brotherly relationship devolved to this? Trivial remarks and rude actions?"

"Please, I thought we've already established you prefer to be called 'mother'," Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his shirt.

"And there goes any hope of this conversation being free of your pettiness."

"Petty? I'm not petty. I'm simply waiting for the moment when you lament about my failures yet again."

Mycroft's mouth twitched. His eyes raked over the map on the wall with all the dead ends, making his own observations with what data Sherlock had managed to collect. "Well, it has been three months and you still do not have any leads on Moriarty. It is your own fault that you have not been able to make any correct conclusions so far."

"Ah, there's the insult. I knew you couldn't resist." Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

"It has been difficult enough arguing with the people concerned with your return from exile that you are the only one who can deal with Moriarty," Mycroft sneered. "It would be quite helpful if you actually presented something I could work with to assure them that you are taking care of it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, standing swiftly. "They can feel free to solve it themselves if they aren't satisfied with me working the case. I _am_ the only one who he will respond to, the only one he would bother coming out of the dark for." Sherlock raised his voice in response to the swelling of anger he felt in his chest. "I have no facts! If it weren't for them I could be out searching for evidence myself, but I'm trapped here relying on nothing but John's sporadic intelligence and papers three years dated! If they want useful information, I need out!"

"It is not as though I am enjoying the arrangement either," Mycroft added. "Like it was 17 years ago, it is more of a punishment for me than it is for you." His eyes fell to the damaged fireplace mantle, and flickered to the carving in the wood, his frown deepening. "And like 17 years ago," his voice oozing his annoyance, "you have begun to destroy my house again out of spite."

Sherlock didn't even spare a glance to the damage he had wrought to the room. He paced in response, showcasing his cabin fever. His hands waved in the air. "Yes, well, if I wasn't trapped here, I wouldn't have to resort to such methods to alleviate the boredom." He stopped, and whirled on Mycroft. His robe flared as dramatically as it had in his mind palace. "To the point, Mycroft. Why did you come in here? Despite the fact we're begrudgingly trapped in the same house as each other, you don't tend to stop by for inane chats."

"Hmm, quite." Mycroft straightened his posture, staring down his brother with a neutral expression. "After a lengthy conversation with the aforementioned people concerned for your welfare, I have managed to secure your freedom." He grinned smugly at Sherlock.

Sherlock perked up in interest, hope flooding his body for a brief moment before skepticism crept in. His eyes darted over Mycroft quickly, trying to find the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Something's changed," he concluded. Sherlock stepped closer, peering intently into Mycroft's face. Mycroft gazed down in displeasure at the invasion of personal space, and leaned back slightly. Sherlock pointed at Mycroft's face, stepping back once more. "You would have never put an effort to do that if nothing had happened, and certainly you and the rest of the British Government would not let me out of your amusing punishment unless _he_ had done something. Tell me, Mycroft. What did Moriarty do?"

Mycroft pulled the face that reflected how much he was merely humouring his brother's deductions. "I see now you can finally make correct conclusions regarding Moriarty," he said, dodging the question, if only in revenge for Sherlock's earlier pettiness.

Sherlock growled in response, his face twisting with impatience. He resumed his pacing to burn off the frustration building inside him. " _Tell_ me. Get on with it so you can go back to pretending you don't feel guilty for eating the last bit of cake."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at that statement, but did nothing to refute it. He twirled the umbrella once before responding. "The homeless of Vauxhall have all been murdered." He paused, catching Sherlock's eyes for the next sentence. "I am having the Aurors held off until you get there."

Sherlock stopped cold in the middle of his pacing. He frowned, turning slowly until he faced Mycroft's profile head-on. He took a step forward, the old wood creaking under his bare feet. "And what do the Aurors want with the homeless?" he asked, his voice steely with seriousness.

"It seems that the preliminary consensus is that the cause of death is the killing curse." Mycroft continued to survey Sherlock with that smug look of his.

"And Moriarty?"

"Left a charming message on the wall."

Silence fell in the parlour for several short moments. Sherlock's mouth worked inaudible words while Mycroft looked on, waiting. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, his body as still as a statue, before he suddenly jumped with manic energy, a true grin blossoming across his face. "Oh, this is new." He dashed around to the wall with the string map, and tore it down in one go like he had Molly do in his mind palace. The pins clattered carelessly across the carpet, and Mycroft adopted the disapproving look once more. "This is fantastic! An angle that I wasn't sure if I would have to consider."

Sherlock bounced to Mycroft and held out his hand. "Give me my mobile, I need to text John." Mycroft reached into the pocket of his trousers to retrieve the device, and Sherlock plucked it out of his fingers before it even properly cleared the pocket. "Magic! Brilliant!" he breathed as he unlocked his phone. _Mass murder in Vauxhall. Interested? – SH_ , he typed, and pressed the send button with enthusiasm.

As expected, John sent a reply almost immediately. _Aren't you still under house arrest?_ Sherlock huffed in annoyance, stalking past Mycroft to exit the room as he ignored John inquiry, not in the mood to explain the details of his release over texts. Instead, he sent one more text, if only to ensure that John would drop anything he was presently doing to join him at the scene. _Underpass where Dzundza hid. Meet me in 30 minutes. –SH._

"I expect to be informed of everything that transpires," Mycroft called, stopping Sherlock just before he bounded out of the room to get changed. Sherlock's head twisted around the frame of the parlour entrance, disgruntled. "I would rather not have to lie on record again for you, especially after the mess you and Moriarty made the last time. It is annoying when people die; it makes for a lot of paperwork."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Since when have you started caring? It's unlike you, Mycroft. You should stop now while you're ahead."

A long-suffering sigh escaped Mycroft, and he leaned wearily on his umbrella. His face fell into creases, showing the effect of his high-stress job and what the relationship with his brother had done to age him. "I always worry, little brother," he said tiredly, for the moment sounding world-weary. He cleared his throat, trying to bury the emotion before speaking again. "Moriarty, despite the joy you take out of solving his riddles, is dangerous, and we learned that the hard way with the Fall. Err on the side of caution." Sherlock turned away, walking to the stairs and starting to ascend to his room. Mycroft raised his voice, attempting to make his point clear. "In this case, Sherlock, it would be rather beneficial to your health to carry your wand."

But the only response Mycroft received was the slam of a heavy door upstairs. He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if Sherlock truly realized the danger he was about to walk into.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Wizard Among Muggles

**A/N. Happy New Year! Apologies and more A/N to be found at the end of the chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter 2 - The Wizard Among Muggles**

The police tape cordoned off most of the area of Vauxhall that Sherlock requested that they meet at, making it hard for John to see, what Sherlock had led him to believe, a collection of unfortunate decreased people lay. Police lights flashed distractingly from all directions, and he held his hand to the side of his head to block out some of the light as he scanned the edge of the police tape border, looking for anyone that he knew that would let him in. He didn't see Sherlock there, and could only assume that Mycroft was holding him up in some way. _Probably still negotiating the terms of his release,_ John mused.

He wasn't alone as he approached the scene. A few interested bystanders hovered on the edges, some attempting to take pictures for the media, the rest standing around with daft looks on their faces, looking as though as they were only there because of the pretty lights drawing their attention. John spotted Sergeant Sally Donovan leaning against a cruiser, staring at her phone, disinterest flickering on her face. John had never liked Sally; despite how Lestrade argued over and over that she was a good cop, John could never get past her inappropriate conduct and general rudeness. And really, how could he really tolerate her, especially after she had been one of the most vocal against Sherlock right before the Fall? Scanning the tape again and not finding anyone else that he knew well, he set his shoulders and approached her.

Sally glanced up when he approached and immediately adopted a pained expression. "Oh, if you're here, _he's_ not far behind, is he?" She angled her body so she could look around him, as though she would find Sherlock lurking ominously behind John's back.

"Sherlock's coming later," John said testily. Sally pulled a face, which John chose to ignore. "If you don't mind letting me in so I can wait for him. . ." He made to duck under the tape, but her hand snapped out and held the tape down.

"Sorry, not this time, John." She said it with a slight smirk, clearly not sorry at all. "This one's been snatched out of hands by some special division. They won't like you and the Menace parading all over their crime scene." She jerked a finger to the side, and he could see a small congregation of men and women all dressed in dark suits and thick jackets, speaking quietly to each other. John spotted a woman with bubble-gum pink hair, and wondered what special division they belonged to that would allow her flashy hair colour. "So it's easier if you take off and tell _him_ too before you're both escorted out." Her eyes flashed in amusement, as though she really wanted to see that.

"Oi, Donovan! Go easy on him, would you?" Greg Lestrade yelled, jogging neatly to them from the direction of the crime scene. He had a thick wool hat covering his silver hair, and his arms were wrapped himself tightly to try to block out the cold March air. "John, I'm glad to see you here. Get in here." He lifted the tape and John slid smoothly under. Sally opened her mouth to protest, but a stern look from Lestrade stopped her; instead she harrumphed and stalked away, her thick curls bouncing with each step she took.

"Sorry about that," Lestrade said, rubbing at his head awkwardly with a gloved hand. "She was really excited to take the case, you know, strange deaths. She hasn't seen anything like it in her career, was extremely excited to attempt to solve it, but when we got the call that we were being bumped off of it, she didn't take it well. Some people got stuck doing crowd control while the rest packed up to let the big boys in." Lestrade led John away from the tape slightly so they could talk in private. John could make out in the distance several coloured tarps littering the ground, marking each body. He swallowed hard as he realized Sherlock was not exaggerating saying it was a mass murder; the sheer number of tarps seemed endless from his distant perspective.

"So who are they, then?" John asked, nodding his head to the congregation of dark-clothed, professional-looking people, leaving the subject of the deaths for the moment. Lestrade followed his gaze.

"They're called Aurors, I think. No idea what department they belong to, though I wouldn't be surprised if it was something crazy like MI5. I haven't had to deal with them in years." Lestrade missed John's eyes light up in recognition as he watched the group. John examined them once more, now with a new light. He had to admit, they had done an impressive job blending in with Muggles; even he hadn't recognized them for what they were, but he supposed it explained the woman with the pink hair. He wondered if anyone he knew from his school days was there, and if they would recognize him. He blinked, realizing that Lestrade had continued talking throughout his appraisal of the Aurors.

"- It's always a hassle, because they demand that we hand over all our notes, which takes time, and it's always a little funny because most of my people seem to always forget what case we're talking about. It's like they're the blokes from that show, X-Files, always showing up to look after the strange cases. Well, stranger than you and Sherlock usually deal with." Lestrade frowned at John. "Where is Sherlock? I got a call earlier saying he'd be here to look at the scene before those Aurors take it over."

"He'll be here at some point, I think." John looked out to the road and tried to spot one of Mycroft's cars or a taxi, but nothing, no Sherlock. "What's happened? Sherlock didn't tell me much."

Lestrade breathed out a heavy sigh, one that twirled frozen in the air in front of him like he had just taken a long drag off a cigarette. "It's terrible, that's what it is. There was a big homeless community based here, has been for years, but the whole lot of them are dead." John's face turned grave. He remembered being here with Sherlock years before, when they had been running around following various clues for Moriarty's first game, leading them to the hide-out of an infamous Czech assassin. Sherlock's homeless network had been invaluable back then, and he shuddered to think if any of them had been caught up in the mess that lay not too far from him.

"How many?"

"Anderson had it counted at 56, and as far as we know, no survivors have come out." Lestrade shook his head sadly. "Can't make heads or tails of it, really, and if it hadn't been done already, I'd have called the two of you in for it immediately. They all look like they've been scared to death, with their faces frozen in fear to prove it." John shivered, though not from the chilly air around him. He knew exactly what that meant. "Christ," Lestrade continued, "I haven't seen anything like this since I first joined up. 15 or 20 years ago, this crazy shite was common. Couldn't get through a month without people turning up like this, dead without a mark on their body, and those Aurors would always show up in a flash. Never did find out what it all meant. . ." He trailed off, staring in the direction of the bodies again.

John swallowed hard. He knew. It was when Voldemort had been in power, and it had dark times for everyone in Britain, not just the wizards. The Death Eaters loved to attack Muggles for pure enjoyment. It hardly ever reached the Daily Prophet, but he had been able to pick out their attacks from the Telegraph. He remembered reading about numerous murdered families, most with small children. The one that stuck out the most was a restaurant set ablaze near his family home, back when he was still in school, a restaurant that his family frequented often when he was back on summer holidays. He had overheard a Muggle-born fourth-year Ravenclaw, who he knew lived in his area, mention it one morning back when he had been in sixth-year. He remembered the panic that filled his veins, and the cold sweat that beaded on this skin. He had pleaded with Professor McGonagall for emergency correspondence with his family, which she had granted immediately. He was relieved that his worries had been for nought; his family was fine, but he was one of the lucky ones. Towards the end of his schooling, it was commonplace for a student to be pulled out of class to be told that a family member of theirs had been killed.

"Just terrible. . ." Lestrade muttered, his voice still distant. He shook himself. "Never mind that, how's Mary and the baby?"

"Fine, fine. Still about two weeks from the due date. Mary's a bit sore, though, and I tried to get her to rest more, but of course she's too stubborn to listen."

Both Lestrade and John turned their heads back to the tape at the sound of a car pulling up. They both walked in tandem to the black car, its sleekness and obvious governmental look clearly identifying it as one of Mycroft's. The back door swung open, revealing Sherlock Holmes. He exited swiftly and stood tall, fixing the edges of his coat, and flicking up the edges of his collar with his gloved hands. Lestrade sighed in relief at Sherlock's presence, but John just smiled, happiness at seeing his best friend in the first time in months curling in his stomach. Sherlock was paler than usual, reflecting three months of house arrest where John wasn't able to at least force him into the sun. Otherwise, he seemed the same as he always had; eyes sweeping across every inch of what he could survey, his head haughtily held high, and the subtle shift in his body language that betrayed his enthusiasm for a new case.

John noted that the open door revealed the so-called Anthea, typing quickly on her mobile, all the while looking quite bored. As Sherlock stepped out of the way, John leaned down to her eye level, and called out a greeting. She barely twitched a response and continued to smack on the wad of gum she had in her mouth

"Oh, don't mind her," Sherlock said, waving a hand. "She's relaying our every action back to Mycroft. Takes a lot of concentration to type out all of our breaths and errant scratches, you know. Mycroft would hate for her to miss a single thing."

At this Anthea looked up from her screen, but her thumbs did not cease their movement. She fixed him with an exasperated glare, shockingly similar to the one Mycroft would also give Sherlock. Sherlock gripped the door with his hand. "Do me a favour, would you, Anthea, if that is the name you're going by this week, anyways. Tell my brother to get his treadmill fixed. He needs some sort of balance to what he eats."

Anthea's attention returned to her screen. "Ta, boys," she said between gum smacks. Sherlock swiftly shut the door and the car immediately began to drive away. He joined John and Lestrade on the other side of the police tape.

"Took you long enough to get here," John remarked, grinning.

Sherlock made a face. "Mycroft kept nattering on about trivial things regarding my release from solitude. It was annoying."

"So, that's it? You're back?"

"I'm back." Sherlock turned to Lestrade, giving him a once over. "Lestrade, I see your divorce finally came through. Finally got tired of taking back your wife, did you?"

"I'm not even going to ask how you know." Lestrade wiped a hand over his face tiredly. "There's only so many lies about PE teachers I can believe before it just looks bad on me being a Detective Inspector."

"Yes, but you surpassed that quota several years ago," Sherlock quipped. Lestrade groaned behind his hand, sounding something along the lines of 'didn't miss this bit'. John's lips twitched upwards, but he was able to hold the full grin back.

"Sherlock, play nice. You haven't even been back two minutes and you've already started to insult Scotland Yard," said John lightly. But he was enjoying every second of the exchange. He had really missed his best friend. Sherlock ignored John's comment, his attention on the group of Aurors. His eyebrows creased and a small frown formed on his lips.

"No point in saying that, John, it's too far ingrained in him," Lestrade sighed. "He's going to be insufferable when he sees Anderson. Well, come on then, I suppose you want to get right at the scene."

"Of course." Sherlock tore his eyes from the Aurors, striding ahead immediately. Lestrade and John trailed behind him, jogging at first to keep up. "Tell us, what happened?"

"Call came in a couple of hours ago," Lestrade said. "Some pedestrians reported hearing screaming, flashing green lights, and a couple of loud cracks, like fireworks. They go and investigate and find nearly 60 bodies."

"No witnesses?" Sherlock interjected.

Lestrade shook his head. "None have come forward. We're not sure if there were any survivors. It looks like they were surprised; barely any of them ran far enough before being killed." They neared the fence dividing the street from the scene. A uniformed officer stood guard and nodded at Lestrade as the three of them walked in.

John swallowed hard at what he saw before him. Dozens of tarp-covered bodies littered the ground, and some, he noted, were quite small. They were positioned in a way that showed that they ran madly from the large, sheltered area from which they constructed a small, warm community, but had clearly been ambushed upon escaping. He grit his teeth. It was obvious that several people had been involved; some to flush out the people, and the others to catch the ones who came close to escaping. John spotted Philip Anderson and another forensic officer staring at a red splotch on a distant concrete wall.

Sherlock stepped up to the nearest tarp, knelt down beside it, and pulled back one corner to reveal the face of the victim.

"Oh, God," John gasped. His head turned side-to-side of its own accord, and he felt his chest twinge. "Is that – is that Wiggins?"

"Indeed," Sherlock replied tonelessly. John stepped forward to get a closer look at Wiggins' face. Like any victim of the Killing Curse, his face was frozen in the last expression it held in life. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was slightly agape, as though he had been yelling in fright. John grit his teeth. When he had first met the young man back in December, he had not exactly taken to him, but Sherlock had. Wiggins had possessed great powers of deduction; Sherlock was attempting to take him in as a trainee before the Magnussen incident. By all means, it seemed as though he was turning his life around. John was puzzled as to why he was even here in the first place.

"Sherlock, why was Wiggins here? I thought you said that you planned on training him as your sort of apprentice?" John knelt next to Sherlock, and reached for Wiggins' wrist.

Sherlock's mouth thinned. "If you think you were the only one investigating on my behalf while Mycroft decided to play house, you are sorely mistaken, John. As part of his training, he was my ambassador to the homeless network while I was otherwise occupied." His eyes flitted across Wiggins' face again. "This was a waste. His death was unnecessary."

John removed his hand when Sherlock roughly tossed the tarp back over Wiggins' face and stood up. Without facing Lestrade, Sherlock asked, "Are they all like this?"

"Most of them, yeah. Do you know what it is? I'd honestly like a better explanation than scared to death-"

"Wait, most?" John interrupted, standing once more. "They're not all like this?"

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "That's one of the weird things. Most of them, yeah, look like they've been scared out of their wits, but we've got one back there in the settlement who's been shot in the head. But he's been moved there. We have no idea who he is, or really where he came from, though he'd look like he'd fit in well at the Globe Theatre."

Sherlock had already walked away, flitting neatly between the tarps, occasionally stopping for a moment to lift the edges and gaze at the faces. John strode quickly to his side. Lestrade huffed as he jogged up, but as he arrived, Sherlock took off again, heading towards Anderson and the red wall. The other officer had already moved away, taking some equipment back to a van.

Anderson had spotted them and intercepted them before they could reach the wall. He stood excitedly in Sherlock's path, a wide smile blooming behind his ridiculous, thick beard. "Sherlock, I'd knew you'd come," he said giddily. "John, nice to see you too, well, despite the circumstances that got you both here."

John merely nodded politely at Anderson. Sherlock groaned in exasperation, and fixed Lestrade with an annoyed look. "You hired him back? Scotland Yard was actually bearable without him there. Why did you have to go and change that? It was nice!"

Anderson's smile did not diminish in any way. Lestrade's hand rubbed his face again. John thought that at the rate he was going, Lestrade was going to rub his face raw by the end of the night. "We were short, Anderson is good with forensics, and the department was fine with him, especially after we realized that you simply faked your death. Besides, you shouldn't be complaining. Anderson likes you now, so it won't be a hostile working environment like last time. He runs a fan club about you, you know!"

"Yes, I know, and that's what makes him even worse to work with," Sherlock spat. John's mouth twitched at his friend's comments. Anderson, of course, jumped to the defense of his fan club and exclaimed, "I'll have you know my club helped convince people that you were not a fraud, and that you were still out there-"

"Anderson!" Lestrade barked, cutting off whatever fan-theory rant he would have gone on. "Stick to the case while we still have the scene, will you?"

"Right, right. If you will follow me, I'll show you the message left behind." Anderson started to lead the four of them to the stretch of concrete stained red, but of course he couldn't stay silent for long. "Now, I was talking to MacPherson earlier," he started as they stopped in front of the crimson wall, "and we both have agreed on a theory for the symbol. The killer obviously left behind this so they could tell us that 'we're watching you'-"

"Anderson, if you value not continuing to sound any more like an idiot like you already have, I would suggest shutting up right now," Sherlock barked, his eyes never leaving the expanse of wall in front of him.

Anderson huffed. "What else would a giant eye mean?"

John couldn't help but agree with Anderson at the moment, but he knew if Sherlock had made a comment about it, then it wasn't as obvious at it seemed. Before them a crude eye adorned the wall. It was quite simplistic in nature, merely two curved lines that crossed and enclosed a circle. _Thank goodness it isn't drawn in blood_ , John thought as he examined how the off-red paint had dried dripping down the wall, a sign of how hastily it had been drawn. John glanced at Sherlock beside him, who was muttering under his breath as his eyes flicked over every inch of paint, categorizing each errant splatter. Lestrade had his arms crossed over his chest as he bit his tongue waiting for an answer.

John looked back to the tarp-covered ground for a moment, then back to the wall. Mass murder in Vauxhall indeed, and considering who they had been attempting to track the last three months, it wasn't hard to figure out which psychopath they knew had done this. "This is Moriarty's work. The eye and the attack on the homeless."

"Well done, John. Always more observant than Anderson," Sherlock remarked lightly.

Anderson didn't bother smothering his haughty pout. "Yes, well, according to you everyone is more observant than me."

"But what does it mean?" Lestrade echoed Anderson's question. He rocked on his heels to try to keep himself warm in the March chill. "If it's Moriarty, he's back for you, Sherlock, but if he's not watching you, what is this all for? Last time he bloody gave us some time to figure out his cryptic messages before he went around and murdered innocent people."

"Revenge," Sherlock said, frowning. "This was nothing but for revenge. An eye for an eye."

"What, Hammurabi's code?" John asked. The phrase was ancient, he knew, and one of the oldest recorded laws. But why would Moriarty apply it now?

Sherlock flew into a flurry of movement, coat flaring around him. "An eye for an eye. My network for his. When I faked my death after the climax of our game, I spent the years you all thought I was dead tracking the various strands of Moriarty's great spider web, and destroying them. It would be pointless to spend all the time during the Reichenbach mess attempting to get rid of one master consulting criminal if someone in his web decided to step up and become the new spider at the centre. I eliminated all of his connections, and he would have had to start from scratch when he returned." He paused, glaring to the side. "Which is why I have not been able to find a trace of him yet," he spat.

"So he took it out on the homeless?" Anderson, as much as he now admired Sherlock, still had skepticism in his voice. Sherlock threw his glare to him instead.

"Were you not paying attention? My network for his. I destroyed his link to his web when we both disappeared, and in response to that destroyed mine. Not just any homeless, my homeless network. I have been paying the homeless for years in order to get information around London that would take you lot ages to retrieve. How else would you think I found Dzundza so fast when we were dealing with Moriarty the first time around?"

Anderson grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and turned away. John shoved his numbing, gloved fingers into his coat pockets. Staring at the eye again, he knew Sherlock was right. No, it wouldn't be as simple as an 'I'm watching you'. Moriarty always knew, he was always watching. He was as attuned to their movements just as much as Mycroft was, and it wouldn't make sense for him to point out something that they all knew. This was a game for Sherlock, so of course the clues would hold entirely different meanings. But that's what it was, a game.

"But as sick as this is, this is all just for you, Sherlock," John said. "He's showing you that he's ready for another one of his twisted games."

"Yes, murder does seem to be his way of saying 'hi'."

"So it's true, then?" Lestrade sighed, his heavy breath twirling in the air. "Moriarty's really back? That video a few months back wasn't just a hoax?"

"He's back," Sherlock said tonelessly. His lips melded into a flat line.

"But he shot himself in the head!" Anderson exclaimed. He mimed the gun with his fingers, and rested them against his head. "You said that yourself, and we had to pick up bits of his brain off the roof of St. Barts' that day."

John had been wondering the same thing for months. He never saw Moriarty shoot himself, of course, not with him being on the street stories away from the incident, but he trusted Sherlock's version of the events. John had considered maybe a duplicate replacing the actual Moriarty, but dismissed the idea because he knew that Sherlock would have been able to tell right away an imposter. John leaned closer to Sherlock so he could mutter in his ear. "Sherlock, how did Moriarty survive?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said quietly, before raising his voice to reach normal volume. "I need more information. I can't simply create a theory before I have the proper data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts." He turned to Lestrade. "Show me the one who was shot. I need to know why they were different from the rest."

"Right, he's just at the centre of the compound," Lestrade said. As he started to lead them away, Anderson followed, so he stopped for a moment to say, "Anderson, you finish packing up here, and go talk to the Aurors before you leave. I think they want to take your statement before you go."

"Or erase your memory," Sherlock muttered under his breath, loud enough only for John to hear. As Anderson collected his forensics kit and walked towards the vans, John glimpsed the Aurors starting to mobilize. They grouped themselves into pairs, and were beginning to speak to the constables. One pair, he saw, was speaking to Sally Donovan out of sight of the general public, and John was sure that she would be Obliviated soon. Lestrade was not far off when he mentioned that some cases would slip from the minds of his officers; when magic was involved, the Aurors went out of their way to ensure that no Muggle would remember the incident. John now understood why Mycroft had sent for Sherlock to examine the scene. The Ministry of Magic, despite knowing that the British Government was aware of their existence, refused to cooperate with their Muggle counterpart, even in dark times - one simply had to look to the last time Voldemort was active before now for proof. John and Sherlock would be safe from the Ministry's strict policy as wizards themselves, and could relay any information back with ease.

As they approached the new body, John noted that it seemed to be the epicentre of the tragedy that lay in the form of tarps on the ground. The other bodies radiated outward from him, like he was the blast that ended their lives, even when John was sure that a single killing curse could not have been used to murder 56 people. The deceased in question was an elderly man, exceedingly tall for his age, with thick, white hair. He was dressed in what John recognized as expensive, blue robes. John frowned, and tilted his head. Wizard, definitely, pure-blood, if he had to guess by the robes alone. He didn't recognize the man, but considering that he had separated himself from the wizarding world 16 years ago, he didn't see that as unusual. And it wasn't as though a Muggle-born like him was going to be invited to all the pure-blood functions to interact with its elderly members.

"This one's a bit odd," Lestrade said, scratching his head under his hat. Sherlock immediately crouched down and started his examination. "Besides being shot and moved here to this location, he sticks out like a sore thumb. I rang the Globe Theatre to see if they had any actors or costumes missing, but they denied anything of the sort. I'm not sure if there are any fairs in town either, but he'd fit in well with one of those."

"John," Sherlock said, but his focus was still solely on the body. John crouched down beside him, but had the thought to look back at Lestrade. "Sorry, Greg, do you have any gloves for me?" he asked.

Lestrade pulled a pair from his pocket and tossed them at John. "Figured you'd ask."

Leaning over the body again with Sherlock, the consulting detective spoke again. "What do you see?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. _Or more likely a test,_ John mused. He took his time looking down at the unfortunate wizard below them, taking note of the precise single-bullet wound to the forehead. _Small calibre, most of the head still intact, enough left for facial recognition_. His movements were methodical as he probed the fatal wound, before he moved to the robe, looking for identification. No wand, which would have concerned John if he didn't know that Lestrade would have mentioned it right away as part of the wizard's 'oddities'. But he did notice that the chest of the man was severely bruised, and John would bet that his ribs were broken too.

"Wizard, pure-blood going by the quality of the robes, but no wand on him and I don't recognize his face," John whispered. It wouldn't do for Lestrade to hear them, even if he was going to be Obliviated at the end of the night. "Trauma to his chest. Probably beaten before killed. Single gunshot wound to the head, but seeing as the concrete isn't a bloody mess, he was moved here." John glanced around him at the tarp-covered bodies, and elaborated more. "Most likely Apparated here, seeing as how everyone seemed to be running away from this point, they must have appeared out of nowhere."

"Better, but you still are missing the essentials," Sherlock said. He glanced up to say more, but spotted something over John's shoulder and immediately ducked his head back down. Confused, John looked behind him. Two Aurors were heading their way, the woman with the vibrant hair and a tall, dark-skinned man.

"John, the Aurors are getting impatient and they're trying to steal the scene from me. Go distract them while I finish my examination." Sherlock kept his head down as he said this, and shifted so his back was to the Aurors. John's eyebrows quirked up at this. "Why? They won't bother us, it's everyone else they're going to Obliviate."

Sherlock grumbled deep in his throat. "If they ask, and they will, tell them that you're the only wizard here. Tell them that I am simply a Muggle detective doing Scotland Yard's job for them."

John frowned. "Sherlock, you're a wizard; I've seen you do magic. Why would you deny-"

"Trust me, John, this is easier," Sherlock snapped, but still managed to keep his voice low. He resumed his examination and happily ignored the expletive John muttered, despite the look that John was also drilling into the back of his skull. _Damn it, Sherlock_ , John thought, his inner voice full of annoyance. _When are you going to stop acting without explaining things to me?_ Regardless, he followed his instructions, stumbled to his feet, and moved to intercept the Aurors before they would reach Lestrade, Sherlock, and the body of the unknown wizard. He heard Lestrade asking Sherlock if he had found anything, but was distracted from hearing Sherlock's response - if there was one, he was being uncharacteristically cryptic tonight - as he recognized the pink-haired witch's companion.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt, I haven't seen you since school," John said, reaching out to shake his hand in greeting. Kingsley, unlike his time in school, was now completely bald, and a single gold hoop pierced his ear. They had been in different houses, but had been friendly with each other. The tall wizard grinned warmly and clasped John's hand tightly, covering their joined hands with his unoccupied one. The pink-haired witch slipped ungracefully to a stop beside the two, but smiled politely once she recovered.

"John Watson!" Kingsley exclaimed in his rumbling, baritone voice. "It's been far too long, my friend." They released hands, and Kingsley gestured at the pink-haired witch beside him. "John, this is Nymphadora Tonks." Tonks scowled at the use of her full name, but Kingsley carried on without interruption. "She is one of our new, but brilliant Aurors. Tonks, this is John Watson. He was invaluable during the last war. Dumbledore always spoke highly of his actions."

"Wotcher, John!" Tonks said, flashing him a wide smile. Her hand snapped out and captured John's, giving his a warm shake. "It's nice to meet you. If you fought in the last war, were you apart of the Or-"

"Tonks!" Kingsley reprimanded, but his voice was kind. Tonks bit her tongue and mimed zipping her mouth shut. She silently said 'sorry', forming the word with over-exaggerated movements of her mouth. John smiled softly at her energy. She was still incredibly young, early twenties at the most. Examining her and feeling a lot like Sherlock, he knew that despite her youth, she was dedicated, and John had a strong feeling that she was a force to be reckoned with if ever provoked. The slip of her tongue indicated that they were both in the Order of the Phoenix. He was surprised with Kingsley, as he had not been a member during the first war. Though that war had essentially destroyed the ranks of the Order, so John wasn't surprised, he supposed, that they had been replaced.

"I was, yeah," John said in response to her unfinished question. "Joined right after I graduated. Dumbledore recruited me before I had even left the castle from the ceremony." He was one of a few that year, he remembered, that Dumbledore had pulled from the graduation luncheon with their parents. He had been decked out in his best dress robes, and his mother was trying to take a picture of him and his father with the castle as a backdrop. Smiling, as he glanced away from the camera, he saw Professor McGonagall approach him and whisper lowly into his ear that Dumbledore wished to speak to him.

John had not been blind to the increasing efforts of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, no, the newspaper incident that proved that. At the Gryffindor table, many would outwardly protest against the senseless killings, and swore that as soon as they were graduated, they would lend a hand in the fight against the dark wizard. One voice he remembered being one of the loudest was James Potter, who had been a year younger than him; he had also joined immediately after graduation, and rest his soul, had paid the ultimate sacrifice. John agreed with the need to fight back, and knew that the war affected him the most as a Muggle-born, with parents that could be targeted. So when Dumbledore asked, there was no hesitation in his affirmative.

"John, no one has heard from you in years," said Kingsley. He clasped his hands professionally in front of him, and his head tilted down so their eyes locked. "Where did you go? You barely returned anyone's owls."

John lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "After the war, there wasn't much left in the wizarding world for me. You know what happened to my housemates," he muttered, ice in his tone. He shook his head, and offered a brief summary of the years. "So I left. I went to medical school, became a doctor, seeing as that's what I wanted to be as a kid and since healer didn't interest me as much. I got caught up in another war, the Muggle one in Afghanistan, but came home when I was injured." He paused, and the corners of his mouth turned up involuntarily when he thought of Mary, who was currently watching the Great British Bake Off at home. "I got married last year, and my wife Mary is pregnant with our unborn daughter."

Kingsley clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "Congratulations, my friend."

"Congrats!" Tonks chirped. John blinked as her hair seemed to flash hot pink for a moment, before it settled back to bubblegum. She leaned in conspiratorially, and her words were a hush whisper when they spilled from her mouth. "Did you ever look back, though? Didn't you miss it at all?"

Rather than be offended by the blunt question, John considered it. The past few years in his flatshare with Sherlock, and his marriage to Mary, he had reflected on the wizarding world less and less as time went on. It wasn't as though he removed magic completely from his life. His wand could always be found on his person along with his gun, and was dead useful for situations that were a bit unorthodox. Sherlock, of course, liked his dangerous experiments, and more than often John had to have a counter-curse ready on the tip of his tongue or had to quickly Vanish lethal potions before the fumes could suffocate them all. He enjoyed using magic around his home. But what made John comfortable with his life was the perfect meld of magic and Muggle that he managed to create. As a child he worried that he would have to give up the wonderful things the Muggle world had to offer if he chose magic; now, he could see it didn't have to be that way.

"No." The truth rang in John's words. "When You-Know-Who vanished in Godric's Hollow at the Potter residence, and his Death Eaters scattered, the war was over and I was happy. I wanted to move to the Muggle world, and I can honestly say I've never been happier."

While Tonks looked thoughtful, John noticed that Kingsley's mouth had tightened at his mention of Voldemort. He also bent his body down, and surveyed the immediate area before speaking. "Have you seen the Daily Prophet lately, John?" Kingsley rumbled, his eyes hyper-focused as they swept over the smaller man.

John frowned as Tonks grew more attentive herself, but he knew what they were leading up to. "I have a subscription," John remarked, "but I haven't really been reading the paper because of all the rubbish it's been printing." Kingsley looked disappointed with John's assessment, so he sought to clarify. "How a wizard in his right mind could undermine Dumbledore is beyond me, as he wouldn't support a statement unless he truly believed that there was merit behind it. And 10 escaped Death Eaters is hardly a coincidence when paired with what Dumbledore has been claiming for nearly a year."

Kingsley nodded, but his eyes were distant; John knew he was turning over a heavy thought in his mind. Tonks' mouth twitched into a grin. "So you believe it, then? You believe he's actually back?" Her words tumbled out in a rush, and John could hear the unspoken question. _Will you join the Order again?_ He had been expecting someone to approach him for a long time; last June when Harry Potter first claimed that Lord Voldemort had returned, within hours he had received an urgent owl from Dumbledore himself imploring him to rejoin the Order in the fight. And yet, he had hesitated. He was engaged to Mary at that time, and Sherlock had long since returned to drag him back into the wild and adventurous life of a consulting detective. He was tired of wars after fighting in two, magical and Muggle, and did not wish to have the scars of another adorning his body and mind.

John spotted Sherlock's sweeping form approach them, leaving Lestrade behind with the wizard's body. Sherlock flipped up his coat collars again as he walked, but kept his head angled down. His pace didn't slow as he passed them, but he was able to interject a sentence before they all turned and watched his coat swirl as he stalked back to the police tape. "I've got a lead," he had said coolly. John merely sighed in response.

"Sorry about that," John said apologetically. He started to lean away from Kingsley and Tonks. "Sherlock Holmes, famous consulting detective in the Muggle world. Bloody brilliant, but no ounce of common courtesy. Sorry, we'll be on our way."

"Is he a Muggle?" Tonks inquired, peering at Sherlock's receding form. "Sorry, but if he is, we're doing a clean sweep of all the Muggles with a team of Obliviators soon, and he needs to stay for that."

John's mind raced for half a second. Sure, Sherlock had said to say he was a Muggle, but if he was to reiterate that, they both would be stuck at the scene for a long time. _Which would hamper Sherlock's plans and only lead to a fuss that would give everyone a migraine_ , John thought. But if he were to say Sherlock was a wizard, he had a gut feeling that Sherlock's revenge would be unpleasant, despite the fact that John saw no reason to withhold the information.

So he compromised.

"Squib, actually," John lied, shrugging and employing a straight face. "Made for an easy flatshare. I didn't have to explain away the owls and floating teacups, which was a nice change."

Tonks nodded, accepting the explanation. John tried to skirt away once more, but Kingsley's firm hand grasped his shoulder. "John," he rumbled, "war is again on the horizon, and I am afraid that it will touch the world you hold dear. If you ever change your mind about Dumbledore's request, my door is always open. We will welcome you back with open arms." He removed his hand.

"Right, thanks," John said. He nodded to the two of them. "Sorry, I have to catch up with him. He'll catch a cab and leave me behind if I don't. Tonks, it was nice meeting you. It was great seeing you again, Kingsley." He darted away after Sherlock, and Kingsley and Tonks continued on to Lestrade and the wizard's body.

He caught Sherlock past the police tape, already walking towards the main road. Sherlock didn't comment on John's arrival; for all John knew, perhaps Sherlock had thought he had been there the entire time and had already been rattling out his deductions.

"Definitely Moriarty, then?" John said, matching his friend's long strides as he made it to Sherlock's side.

"Yes, there's no doubt about it." Sherlock stopped on the corner of the busy road, staring down the road in search of a cab. "All of that was meant for me. My homeless network gone, the writing on the wall, all down to the wizard."

"But why now? He announced he was back months ago."

"His premature announcement was due to my exile. He needed a quick way to ensure that I would remain here in London, and he certainly succeeded. Most likely he planned to announce his return with the scene we just faced, but of course, sometimes plans need to be altered."

"And the magic?" John asked. This was the aspect that he was struggling the most with. Years ago, there was no indication that Moriarty knew of the wizarding world, let alone knew enough to hire people to perform the Killing Curse on 56 people.

Sherlock suddenly stuck his arm into the air. The hailed cab puttered obediently to the curb. "I have a few ideas, but I still need more data." Sherlock opened the cab's door and slid in. John followed and closed the door. "However, I know where to start." To the cabbie, Sherlock spoke up and added, "Charing Cross Road."

"Charing Cross Road?" John repeated. In his head, John skimmed over what he remembered was on that road, but only came up with second-hand bookshops. "Where from there?"

"The Leaky Cauldron, of course. We need to get to the wizard's flat before the Aurors barge in and muck up the evidence worse than Anderson drunk and blind."

John frowned as he tried to connect to where Sherlock's mind was, but he still was left with the feeling that his brain's gears were running slow. _Didn't miss this part_ , he thought, but it was light-hearted.

"Wait, wait, Sherlock," John said. "How did you figure out who the man was?"

A smirk bloomed on Sherlock's face. John shook his head fondly, knowing that Sherlock had probably missed having someone to show off to in his three months of house arrest and was eager to do it once more.

"You missed what was important, John, but weren't wrong in your deductions. The man was a pure-blood, cared enough about his blood status to flaunt it with expensive, tailored robes, but he was not rich enough to be powerful in any capacity, like the Malfoy family. His robes were aged, showed signs of wear before his death, so he wasn't able to replace them on a regular basis and had to resort to repair. Hence his poor financial status. Well-worn robes, and not just regular robes, but near-dress robes. So he worked with high-end clients on a regular basis, and required such dress. But what you missed, besides the obvious cause of death, was his fingernails."

"Fingernails?" John echoed, playing along with Sherlock, who currently was now positively beaming as the words tumbled from his eager mouth.

Sherlock waved impatiently. "The fingernails, John! The fingernails! Dark magic leaves a mark, especially unstable or experimental dark magic. If you work with it for years consistently, it stains you, curses you back in accordance to what you have used. Lord Voldemort, as a blatant example, was said to have become less and less human in appearance as the years passed."

John's mouth flattened into a grim line at his memory of Voldemort from the first war, with blazing red eyes, a pale complexion, and a horrible, high laugh that sent chills down the spine of whoever was unfortunate to hear it. "He did, yeah." John agreed, shaking his head to dispel the image. The cabbie slammed on the brakes abruptly to avoid a collision, and John had to grip the seat in front of him to prevent himself from hitting his head. Sherlock sat unaffected, sitting as straight and poised as he ever was.

He continued as though there was no interruption. "The wizard's fingernails were streaked with black. To Muggles, it would seem as though it would be an injury, or a form of melanoma I believe, but if you were paying attention, you would feel it. It pulses, and writhes under the nails. This man worked consistently with his hands, personally handling dark objects or working his own into creation."

"So he was a dark artifacts dealer? Sold to the pure-blood community?" John said, catching on to Sherlock's train of thought. Sherlock nodded approvingly, so John continued with his next question. "But how did you know who he was? Did you find a bit of identification?"

Sherlock's smile slowly fell until his mouth settled into its resting, indifferent line. His eyebrows twitched together and he turned to look out the window. "No. I recognized him."

John blinked. "You did?" The man that John hadn't even known was a wizard for sometime, who for some reason didn't possess a wand, and the man who asked he hide his status from the Aurors, actually knew a wizard? Let alone a dark one? It wasn't surprising, John considered, that Sherlock knew the unsavory side of the wizarding world when taking into account his previous actions, such as his drug den visit after John's wedding. John couldn't help but recall the statement that Sherlock had repeated once, after he told the real story of what happened at the Fall. _Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one_ second _that I am one of them._

"Yes," he said matter-of-factly, his eyes still following the flashes of headlights as the cars passed by, and the general activity of London at night. "His name was Caractacus Burke, owner of the most well-known dark arts store in the country. And tonight we're going to break into his flat."

* * *

 _She couldn't quite fathom it at first, why they appeared from thin air, but that fact wasn't important. It was the screaming that started soon after, and how Death was swift and not kind that night as it greeted its victims._

 _Five figures appeared in a swirl of black cloth in the centre of a concrete, homeless compound. There were dozens of people there, all bundled in their scavenged sleeping bags and blankets around well-kept fires. They were shocked at first, and angry that when the figures had appeared, they had knocked over and extinguished one of their fires. A woman with straggly hair kept in a purple toque was the first to stand and yell at the intruders, but her yell twisted into a startled gasp when she eyed the body of the elderly man being unceremoniously dropped to the ground, the man's skull hitting the ground with a dull thud. And the woman's gasp transformed into a shriek when one of the dark figures raised a stick at her in the moonlight and a sickening, green light shot at her from the tip. The light carried with it a peculiar sound, like wind rushing hauntingly, violently through the trees, and when it struck the woman, she immediately dropped._

 _Dead in an instant._

 _Discord ensued. As the other three figures joined in flashing the terrible green lights at the homeless, the hoard of people tried, in vain, to run away. In the end they all dropped, frozen in the last expression that they held in life. The rest of the neighbourhood was alerted to the dying screams of the homeless, and were quickly approaching. Three of the four figures disappeared, leaving in that swirl of black cloth exactly like they had arrived with. The last stood at a blank expanse of concrete wall and raise his stick again. Instead of the green light that swept away the lives of the homeless, red light painted a misshapen eye on the wall. And then this figure too did disappear._

 _The grotesque scene faded momentarily before it returned, and Sherlock was there, bent over the first body, the one of the beaten old man. But this too didn't last long, before it shifted to black, and she could hear laughter._ His _laughter. The one that was manic, uncontrollable, and screamed of all the murder that had been performed in the past out of sheer boredom. She panicked, searched for a way to escape, but there was only the pressing darkness and His laugh._

 _But a little light shone through the darkness, more gray in colour than white and he appeared. Sherlock. He stood at the edge of St. Bart's again, with his back to the drop. His long coat flapped madly in the wind ripping at him._

" _Molly," he said, his voice sounding like it was originating from the depths of a long tunnel. But it sounded almost sad, the way he said her name._

 _But that laugh from before drowned out Sherlock's voice. There was another flash of that sickening, green light, striking Sherlock straight in the chest, and he fell over the edge once more . . ._

Molly jerked when she awoke, and struggled to sit up in the twisted mess of blankets that she had been cocooned in. Her chest fluttered as her breaths came in short gasps, and her ears echoed with her wild heartbeats. She swallowed heavily as her hands tangled in the blankets. She let out a long sigh.

"It was just a dream, don't be silly," she chastised herself. She was in her thirties, and it wouldn't do to be scared by something as simple as a weird dream. Just as that thought left her, a dark shadow leapt on her bed, and she screamed.

The shadow jumped into the air and skittered backwards off the bed. Molly fumbled with the lamp at her bedside. Light spilled forth to illuminate the room, and she caught sight of a poofed cat on the floor, giving her the dirtiest look he could muster. "Oh my God, Toby, I'm sorry," she gushed. She patted the bed. "Come here, sweetie. I'm sorry."

Toby threw her another skeptical look, but obeyed, launching himself onto the bed once more. He immediately started purring as she pulled him into her lap and started scratching his chin absentmindedly. _Silly,_ she thought. _I'm just being silly._ She bit her lip as she chanted the mantra in her head, because she couldn't seem to shake the chill from the dream. As a pathologist, it wasn't the bodies that was disturbing her; she'd seen many of those, and despite a brief sad moment for the loss of life, they never usually stuck with her. She was branded as an oddity as a child for wanting to become a pathologist, but she never minded too much, as she knew that it was her calling. So no, she knew it wasn't the bodies, despite it being disturbing that she dreamt of so many people being so thoughtlessly murdered.

But when she thought of the green light, the chill in her bones deepened, and spread to curl uncomfortably in her stomach. She couldn't think of a natural colour that matched the light that stole the life from those homeless people, and wondered if such a green even existed. That laugh, she could have sworn it was Moriarty's laugh, but then Sherlock had spoken. And then he too died. She shook her head to shake away the dream, one of many strange ones that she had had in the last few months. _Just a dream_ , she thought again. She spotted the digital clock near her lamp. 3:01 a.m.

She glanced down at Toby lovingly, who was still purring away without a grudge against her. "Come on, Toby," she muttered softly to him, gently encouraging him up. "Let's get a cup of tea to chase the dream away."

* * *

 **A/N. Hello, all. Apologies for the long absence (I know, my editor EmperorKumquat has been harassing me because of it nonstop), but cancer research tends to eat up all of your free time. However, I am hoping to update chapters a bit quicker than this last one (four months was a bit much, don't you think?), as I'm sure my editor won't let me do that again.**

 **Shoutout to _sunsethill_ for reviewing. I enjoyed reading it and I appreciated receiving the review. **

_**NEXT TIME:**_ **Sherlock and John do a bit of burglary and Molly receives a visit from someone she was not expecting. . .**

 **Cheers,**

 **CWS**


	3. Chapter 3 - 13B, Knockturn Alley

**Chapter Three - 13B, Knockturn Alley**

The Leaky Cauldron, at the best of times, could be filled with a wide variety of patrons, from weary wizards resting after a long journey, the odd goblin or two on break from Gringotts sneering at any who passed their rickety table in the far corner of the bar, or exasperated parents with hyper children that just came from Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. During the day, the sunlight streaming through the translucent windows gave the bar an inviting look, a homely look, from the hodgepodge collection of chairs and tables in different sizes and chairs, to the warm fire licking at the main fireplace, to the moving pictures of past bar owners smiling down at the diners. It was by no means the best bar in London, or the one that served quality food (patron beware the leaky, leaky soup), but it was safe, welcoming, and nostalgic for all of wizarding Britain.

The Leaky Cauldron in the early hours of the morning was not homely or welcoming, but rather reflected its true age and standing. In the low light supplied only by stubs of melting candles, the cracks and mildew of the establishment were more apparent, in stark contrast to the walls that peeled centuries-old paint and the wood flooring that was in need of varnishing. Tom the Bartender with his cheerful demeanour was absent, replaced by a squat witch with tangled, black tresses and a face adorned with a resting glare. A single man sat hunched over the bar, his long, pale fingers teasing a glass filled with a suspicious dark-red liquid. In the corner where the goblins usually sat, there was a pair of hags, picking at a dish with a foul stench that strongly resembled rotting apples.

John had never been in the Leaky Cauldron at this time of night before, nor did he think he had been missing out on much. As he followed Sherlock's heels into the establishment, he eyed the vampire at the bar with his drink, but mostly his eyes were distracted by sweeping over the place he hadn't seen in more than a decade. He tenderly looked at the table in front of the now cold fireplace, where he and his family had their first meal in the wizarding world after purchasing his school supplies when he was 11. And the pillar with the missing brick, behind that he had kissed a sweet Hufflepuff girl the summer before his fifth year.

Sherlock darted swiftly through the bar to the back, where the entrance to Diagon Alley lay nestled between the rubbish bins. He kept his head angled down and his hands firmly on his coat collars, and to anyone looking upon him, John was sure that all they would see were Sherlock's dark curls. John lowered his head as well, but noted that the witch at the bar polishing a glass for the vampire was following their movement as they strode past them. Sherlock shoved the door to the back open, and John caught it with his fingers to ensure that it clicked softly into place behind them.

The winter chill was less biting out back in the enclosed area, but the slight wind that had picked up still ruffled their hair and had John clutching at the edges of his jacket. Sherlock stood at the wall that would open to the shopping district, creases forming on his face as he appeared deep in thought. John mirrored his position in front of the wall, and took in the pattern of bricks he had not seen in a lifetime.

"So," John started, still focused ahead. Sherlock twitched beside him. "Caractacus Burke, one of the owners of Borgin and Burkes, I didn't realize he was still alive before this. When I heard of the shop when I was in school, people only really talked about Borgin."

"Borgin handles the day-to-day management of the shop, and personally deals with the customers," Sherlock said, his voice low. "Deliveries, sales pitching, the like. No, Burke was different. Reclusive, prone to experiment with dark objects and fashioning his own. He didn't interact well with others, was said to disturb or put off any of those he bothered to speak to, and had of his experiments consistently destroy the flats above the shop."

"Sounds familiar," John breathed, chuckling softly. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at the comment, and John shrugged. "Have you not seen what you do to the flat?"

"Yes, but I do not experiment with dark magic." Sherlock's voice was as frosty as the air around them. "You can thank Caractacus Burke for the number of cursed objects in the country. He was a genius in his art, a collector of rare artifacts, but certainly not a nice man. He would rob you of any spark of life and feel no remorse. He was no Dark Lord, but he is not a man to miss from this world." Sherlock's gloved hand gestured at the expanse of wall in front of them, and John pulled out his wand. The memory, although buried, tingled his arm into movement, tapping the bricks three up, and two across, like a pianist playing a song after a long hiatus. The hole started out small, a few bricks sliding out of the way and fitting together with soft clinks. As the pattern of folding bricks became more elaborate, falling back into an arc, John waved his wand with a lazy flick, silencing the bricks from echoing down the Alley and waking any owners currently asleep in their shops.

"You are used to Muggle weapons and Muggle traps, John," Sherlock continued. He tilted his head down and considered John. "It's been years since you've seen yourself facing wizarding defenses. I can assure you that it will be more dangerous than usual to trespass into Burke's home; I haven't the faintest as to what curses will be unleashed once we step through his door, and I can't guarantee that they can be reversed."

John returned his wand to the depths of his jacket pocket as he snorted at Sherlock's words. His imprisonment must have truly addled his head to cause him to stare at John with an unfamiliar look of apprehensiveness, and a twinge of hesitation in the set of his shoulders. "Like that's ever stopped us before. Let's get this over with, I have surgery in a few hours, you know."

His response pacified Sherlock. With a swift swirl of his coat, Sherlock set off with John trailing at his side, although his eyes were focused at the street he had not seen since his first war. The twisting alley was the same as that of his childhood; the display windows were dimmed by the night, yet the little light the winter moon offered hinted at the glittering array of potion ingredients, spellbooks, and other wizarding equipment within each shop. There was a flickering candle lighting the back of Ollivander's shop, but the thought of the quirky wandmaker working at all odd hours of the day did not surprise him. The alley was quiet in its slumber, waiting for the awakening of a new day for smiles and laughter to grace its cobblestone paths once more. This was in stark contrast to the side alley that Sherlock stepped into, marked only by a weathered, wooden arrow marked _Knockturn Alley_. A dank stench wafted up from the alleyway, one that reminded John of unpleasant memories of decay and unwashed bodies.

Stepping down the passageway that sloped ever downwards to the slums of the wizarding world, the ambient noise faded, and the lack of noise pressed into John's ears. Even though Diagon Alley was peaceful in its sleep, the nightlife of London could be heard around. Here the darkness pressed uncomfortably in on their sides, blocking the noise from the outside world, and making it incredibly hard to see. John squinted at the form of his friend only steps in front of him, but while John was unsure in his footing on the uneven stone ground and was wondering if he would need to light a wand before he broke his ankle, Sherlock didn't even glance at his footwork as he strode along.

When they entered the main stretch of Knockturn Alley, John could understand why as a child he was forbidden to walk among this street. The shops that lined the narrow, winding, and decaying road proudly displayed human bone fragments, buckets of ooze that continued to bubble in the off hours, dangerous and certainly illegal potion ingredients, along with ordinate pieces of jewellery that were without a question cursed. Whereas Diagon Alley was colourful, vibrant, and glittery with the best of the wizarding world, this alley was the muted and dirty version, where only the scum and darkest of souls gladly tread.

Sherlock slowed his pace as they arrived at their destination, Borgin and Burkes, a dingy shop nestled in the mildewy stone. John's eyes skimmed the items in the window; a collection of shrunken heads stared out at him, their waxy skin held taut by black stitching. Sherlock scanned the building until his eyes rested on a side door attached to 13B. John noticed it as well, and from a glance at the grimy windows above the shop, he could only assume that it led to the apartments above.

With a quick look around them, Sherlock crept closer to the door. The handle was old-fashioned to John, rusted, and looked like it had been there since the alley was first erected. Sherlock muttered to himself as he examined the lock, and with his own look down the street, John leaned closer to Sherlock so they could talk.

"Well, then, tell me," John muttered. Sherlock frowned, pausing in his stroke of the lock with the tip of his gloved finger.

"Tell you what exactly?" Sherlock quipped. His eyes didn't leave the lock as he wiggled his finger above the lock with a flourish. His frown deepened when the lock did not respond.

"All the deductions that you had at the crime scene. How did you know who he was? I didn't, and I've dealt with a lot of nasty wizards through the Order."

Sherlock lowered his glove. His gaze refused to waver. "Caractacus Burke may have supported the Dark Lord indirectly, but he was not one to get his hands dirty. You would have never seen him in the battles that you fought during that war." He tested the handle of the door, but it was still locked. "I, however, find Knockturn Alley to be useful on occasion. All the shops in Diagon Alley are boring. None of them sell the good potion ingredients."

Considering the experiments that went wrong every fortnight, John knew better than to describe the "good potion ingredients" as such. John gestured to the current problem, while keeping a soldier's eye on their surroundings.

"Having problems?" he commented in regard to the magical lock. Sherlock stepped back from the lock.

"Annoyingly so," he spat. "Though I did expect that the living quarters of the masters of dark magic would have good defenses on their door to prevent the common riff-raff from getting in." Sherlock held his hand out, his eyes forward. "Give me your wand."

John lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock. "You're a wizard. Use your own wand instead of mine because of sheer convenience."

Sherlock huffed with annoyance. "I don't have mine on me."

John echoed Sherlock's exhale. "Sherlock, I'm not the glorified weapon's carrier. Learn to carry your own bloody weapons with you. We're in Knockturn Alley for Merlin's sake. Common sense dictates that you would be armed with your wand!" John fought to keep his voice low, but he was able to keep the exasperated tone.

"It is exactly as you said, John, it is more convenient." Sherlock's words were clipped, trying to force the end of the argument. "After all, you are more proficient with the gun you carry on you anyway, so why argue? We will each have a weapon, since that is what you're heavily fixated on at the moment." His fingers twitched again, beckoning for the wand that was safely held in John's left inner coat pocket. "Now, seeing as we're about to walk into a dark wizard's flat, one that is sure to be heavily guarded by countless painful and possibly fatal curses, don't you think it would be better for the wizard with extensive curse-breaking knowledge to hold the wand?"

John lifted his eyebrow at Sherlock's bold claim, but had no doubt in his mind that it was true. John's knowledge on curse breaking was limited, and even though his knowledge of Sherlock's magic past was even more so, it was so incredibly Sherlock to have knowledge of dark magic. _And considering destructive incidents that Mycroft loves to hint at, has probably experimented with at one point_ , _despite what he said earlier,_ John thought. Even with this line of thinking, John was reluctant to hand over his wand, unarming himself to a degree. Yet his hand entered his pocket and fished out the stick of English Oak.

"Or maybe it would be better for the wizard who actually bothered to bring a wand to a dark wizard's lair to hold the wand," he grumbled as Sherlock snatched the wand from his hands. Sherlock immediately began twirling the wand in complicated swirls and slashes above the lock. Silver and blue trails of light were left behind in the dry air like ribbons, twisting together to form a knot.

With a final flick, the knot dispersed into the lock. Sherlock reached forward to twist the knob and the door swung open with a long, disconcerting moan. Sherlock paused, his ear cocked to the open doorway; no response from above was heard. John followed Sherlock up the narrow, slanted staircase after shutting the door behind them with a twin moan and a soft squeak.

Muted yellow light could be seen flickering at the top of the stairs. With each step up, the steps creaked and protested under their feet until Sherlock cast a Silencing charm. The landing that they reached was as dirty as the Alley; the floor was caked in a layer of dirt, dust, and muck. A small lamp rested on a table in the centre of the hall, to the left of which was a door labelled _Borgin_. Sherlock flicked the wand at the door shortly, presumably casting another spell to prevent that occupant from hearing them trespass. At the end of the hall, there was a second door, this one labelled _Burke_. John noticed that Burke's door rested on the door jam, already having been opened.

John's hand slipped into his pocket and withdrew his gun. He jerked his head to indicate that Sherlock enter first. Sherlock raised John's wand to the ready and both men slipped inside the door. It clicked shut behind them at John's touch; they were in the dark once more.

" _Lumos_ ," Sherlock whispered. A dazzling bright light erupted from the tip of John's wand, illuminating the flat and its contents.

It was a room that betrayed the owner as borderline hoarder. Stacks of items could be seen throughout the room, from discarded parchment to what suspiciously looked like human phalanges. They were surrounded by towers of dirty glass cases, each containing an assortment of objects that rivaled those in the shop for sale. The case closest to them held several pieces of jewellery that easily could have cost a fortune each, but the slight glow that encompassed each gold chain necklace and jewel gave away its cursed state.

As Sherlock swept his arm left and right, not daring to move more than that, he illuminated more chipped skulls, various body parts putrefied in jars, and piles of leathery books. A small path led from the door to a large workbench nested under a curtained window. Despite the junk and dark objects littering the room, it did not seem as though anyone else besides the two of them were currently in the flat.

"John." Sherlock's voice cracked in the stagnant air. His focus was still trained on the objects around them. "If you care to keep your life, I would recommend not touching anything in this flat." To compliment his comment, he waved John's wand over a silver brooch closest to them. It began to tremble, small perturbations on the glass it rested on, before it warped and stretched, a small tinny scream originating from it before it burst into dust. John merely blinked.

"Not that I was planning to, thanks," John responded, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He took in the flat before them, scanning for movement. "I don't think anyone is here."

"At the moment, no, but someone was." Sherlock took a tentative step forward. The wood moaned in response. He waved the light of the wand to the floor where in the thick dust, there was a clear indication of a disturbance. "This flat has been untouched for months, as even a slob such as Burke would at least tread through his workshop and carry away the dust. He hasn't been here. The imprints here are too small for his feet."

John nodded, putting away the gun as he did. Sherlock muttered under his breath, twirling the wand as he did. He took another step; the tip of the wand spat red. John watched the movements Sherlock was making with his wand, but he did not recognize them. He only acknowledged that the air in which they breathed seemed to be thinner, and that there was a mild burning sensation that he could feel on the back of his neck.

"What are you doing then?" John asked, stepping forward each time Sherlock made a move. They continued this way until they had made it approximately halfway to the workbench and Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"There are more security protections than I imagined that there would be," Sherlock said, his voice light. He grinned. "Breaking the curses that Burke had layered on this flat was one of the most challenging tasks I have done in a while. Quite refreshing from the torture that was living with Mycroft." Sherlock wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and lowered the wand. "I believe that I have broken all of the curses. We should be free to move at our own accord."

Sherlock's gaze fell on the workbench, and John could see that perched on top of numerous scraps of parchment was a flat, silver tray and a folded card with cursive script. Sherlock's coat swirled as he took another step forward.

 _BANG._

The flat echoed with a sound that rivaled fireworks. John fished out his gun in the split second since the sound, and pointed downward as the floorboards shivered with magic, rippling outward from underneath Sherlock's foot like a stone being thrown into water. Sherlock whirled around with John's wand raised as thick, black smoke rose from between the cracks in the floorboards. John frantically glanced at Sherlock; John was useless in a magical attack without his wand, and he swore he was going to buy a second wand if they survived just so in circumstances like this. He would then at least have something useful to defend himself.

Sherlock immediately jumped into action, brandishing the wand with practiced confidence at the smoke that hovered at their ankles. Yet Sherlock's slashes of white fire and shouts of " _Tenebris Conticescent"_ did nothing to slow its progress. The cloud rose insistently; John yelped as the smoke filled the room, burning his skin and chilling his lungs. He fought to stay conscious as he choked on the spell. He stumbled forward to try to find Sherlock in the vicious cloud, but his friend's voice was sounding farther and farther away until John finally slumped down to the ground with a muted thump.

* * *

"Get down!" A voice screamed, nearly drowned by the sound of rapid gunfire and shattering explosions. In the distance there were muted sounds of others, mostly men, yelling in another language, one that John hadn't heard in what he thought was years.

John blinked. The Afghan sun blinded him; he winced away from the rays as tracers of light danced in front of his corneas as he took in his surroundings. Bodies rushed around him on the sandy expanse dressed in dusty tan, fighting off the ambush they had suffered at the hands of their enemy. He glanced to his left as another explosion threw dirt into his dry eyes and made his ears ring. Their convoy had unknowingly passed over a mine and it was the vehicle that set off the explosion that he was currently looking at. The fire inside was dying to a slight flicker, but he could see that the soldiers that it was carrying had not survived. The driver was draped over the wheel, her face a bloody mess; the passenger seat was empty, but a bloody trail led away from it to end at his knees.

The young man he was working on could not have been much older than 21. His dark face had been lightened with the coarse sand and crimson blood had been ground into his skin. John remembered that not one minute ago he had been speaking, pleading with the doctor to stop the bleeding from his wound in his neck and help him. His brown eyes were closed, but a thin whistle of a breath was still coming from his lips. John readjusted his grip on the dressing he had applied to the wound, knowing that as soon as he released the pressure the wound would immediately become fatal.

He thought he heard another voice above the madness, this one warbly, as though someone was yelling through thick sheets of glass. John glanced around him, staring at the heat waves in the distance as they distorted his vision. It was a faint baritone, this voice, and though he could not pick out the words that were being said, he knew that it was pleading with something among the sobs and screams that also came from this source.

John blinked again, a flash of a dark room of odd trinkets coming to mind, and a shock of curls on the floor at his level emitting the sound. _Sherlock?_ his mind began, but the flash of clarity disappeared as soon as it came. He shook his head. No, he didn't know a man of that name. The baritone screams faded and John could only assume that he was hallucinating in the sweltering heat and the stressful conditions.

John focused on the man he knew was real. His eyes were drawn to the young man's name tag. "Come on, Stevens, we're not done here yet." He knew that the injury the man sustained from the shrapnel was too severe for him to properly treat out in the field like this. Another soldier yelled out a warning, and John pressed his body close to the man's chest to protect him from a blast that was close to his back. He felt the heat burn his neck. The ringing increased, and he could barely hear his own voice as he shouted, "I promise that I can help you, so if you still hear me, just trust in me."

John clamped hard on the dressing with his right hand as he slowly withdrew his left. He may have left the wizarding world behind him to become a doctor and a soldier, but he wasn't about to let a man in front of him die when he had the magic that could save his life. He slipped his hand toward the secret pocket he had sown in the inside of his jacket, magically invisible to Muggles. His index finger cleared the opening; he choked a laugh as he touched the handle of his wand because after all of this madness, he would be able to decrease the body count by one at least-

 _CRACK_.

He wasn't sure why he was able to hear the shot that struck his shoulder above all the rest. Perhaps he had imagined it, or maybe it was the sound of the bullet ripping through flesh that he heard. The shock of it immediately flooded ice in his body; he was a doctor, there was a red cross on his arm, you were _not_ supposed to shoot a doctor. They treated everyone…

It didn't matter in the end. John felt his fingers slip from the neck of the young man as his body was jerked back from the force of the shot. Pain spiked greater than any injury he sustained from Quidditch in his school days, or hotter than any curse he experienced during the wizarding war. The edges of his vision darkened and his ears buzzed with muffled sound. His body thumped to the sand beside the young man's, giving John a clear view of blood soaking through the dressing with no abandon, despite John trying to fight through the pain and the impending wave of unconsciousness settling heavy on his mind. He screamed in frustration as his body refused to cooperate with him to save one life, this young life. His fingers dropped centimetres from the pooling blood. His vision went dark.

There was a certain sense of déjà vu as John existed in the dark limbo. His shoulder still shrieked in pain, but hadn't he had this injury before? Wasn't the sand and the heat that stuck to his skin already a distant memory, despite how real it felt? And the young man by the name of Stevens, hadn't he had numerous nightmares that replayed the moment he watched the blood leave his body and end his life before he could wave his wand and save him?

The baritone voice became audible once more, but it wasn't a scream of terror or a cry for help, this was the voice of a man in control, standing tall against the void.

"Enough!" the baritone voice commanded, still muffled by the invisible glass. "Enough!" Clearer this time, as though it originated from beside John, though he knew that there was nothing but the darkness there. " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

A dazzling white light cut through the black, illuminating John's eyelids in a soft pink. As it bathed his body, he felt the bullet wound fade to a pinprick of a memory and turn into a soft ache in his leg. The heat of the Afghan sand was misplaced by the bitter March chill, though the sweat remained soaking through each layer of clothing he had chosen to wear. John noted that he was lying on a hardwood floor as his mind struggled to sort out the Hell of the past from the present. _Sherlock is my best friend - Moriarty is back - Burke - not Afghanistan - London - not Afghanistan, you're not back there -_

John opened his eyes.

Sherlock was on his feet, John's wand brandished in front of him like a torch and his coat billowing out around him. A magpie Patronus flew around the room, chasing the the black smoke that had risen from the floorboards and destroying it on contact. John's breath still came in short gasps from the shockingly vivid trip down memory lane; he swallowed hard, trying to control the emotions he had felt so long ago, now throbbing at the surface. He fought to stop the trembling of his hands and he struggled to his feet, mindful not to touch anything as instructed to avoid that experience again.

Sherlock pivoted on the spot as he directed his Patronus to chase down the remnants of the curse. John studied his face carefully. Even though he had thought that the memory had been real, through it he had heard Sherlock at one point shrieking at the top of his lungs and… crying? Sherlock's face was stony in the reflected light of the Patronus, yet the bright light only served to highlight the tear tracks on his face and the abnormal clammy colour to his skin.

With a final flick of the wrist, the magpie disappeared. Sherlock snapped the wand in a circular fashion and the candles surrounding the circumference of the room flickered to life, bathing their unsettled faces in an orange glow. For a moment after the Patronus dissipated, they stood in relative silence, the only sounds their laboured breathing speaking of what they both witnessed. As always, John was the one to break it.

"I've never seen a curse like that before," John wheezed as he stared at the floor, daring the smoke to return.

"And yet, you've felt something similar," Sherlock rasped. He coughed to clear his voice, proving that whatever Sherlock had seen it did cause him to scream.

"It reminded me of what it's like to be around a Dementor," John admitted, catching on. Minus the cold chill and the unnatural rattle of their breath, the curse had thrown John back to one of his worst memories. "Different, though. It felt so real. It was as though I was right back in Afghanistan living it for the first time. I forgot about you and anything up until the present. Dementors can't do anything remotely close to that . . . what the hell was that?"

"A curse of Burke's making, I believe, designed to be stronger and to avoid the mess of working with the damn beasts," Sherlock said. He waved the wand at the floor again to ensure that what attacked them would not do so again. He grimaced. "There's always _something_ that I miss-"

John moved to interrupt that tirade before it began anew. "So the Patronus worked the same way it would have against the Dementor. But I didn't even realize I was in a nightmare, how on Earth were you able to even think for a moment to cast that?"

"One of the benefits of having my mind, John, is that I know the difference between reality and memory on sight. After years of mastering my own memories, it's natural." Sherlock waved a flippant hand.

Even though they were starting to dry on his still-white face, the tears were obvious. "Right, Sherlock, because I'm sure crying is a sign that you knew it was a memory right away. It felt like a long time that I was back in Afghanistan before you broke the curse," John said, pointing out the evidence. Sherlock's frown deepened, and his fingers wiped away the moisture on his face. "What did you see, anyway? I thought I heard you screaming…"

Sherlock's stony face returned. John stared into his cool, blue eyes, but not a flicker of what nightmare he may have suffered could be found there. "Mycroft hiding my pirate hat when I was a child. He was as annoying back then as he is now," he said without a pause. John knew it was a lie and was about to call him out on it, before Sherlock shoved the wand back into his hands. "Here." His tone was short, signalling the end of the query. "As far as I can tell, there are no more intruder curses."

John accepted the wand and picked up his gun that had been lying on the ground. He chose to drop the subject for now - if Sherlock didn't want to tell him what he actually saw, there was no force that could make him. He could only imagine that it would have been something that occurred during the time Sherlock had pretended he was dead and hunted down Moriarty's old web. He once overheard a snippet of a comment from Mycroft that Sherlock had been tortured in Serbia before he had come home. John shuddered, his mind spiraling down different torture scenarios that Moriarty left behind for Sherlock. He holstered the gun, but kept the wand handy.

"I would have thought there was just more than one curse in this flat," John said off-handedly.

"There were several that I managed to catch and quickly neutralize. The flesh-eating hex was a tad tricky. You may find blisters on various bodily areas later. It was just that last curse I missed." Sherlock turned away, his attention caught by the wooden workbench at the other end of the room. A metal object reflected the light cast by the oil lamps. A folded square of stationary sat neatly on top of the metal surface. "Now, let's see what has been left for us, shall we?"

Sherlock stepped forward with his usual confident stride, his eyes trained on the prize that awaited them. John joined him, his wand hand still at the ready in case Sherlock missed another curse. Yet they reached the messy workbench with nary a dark object even twitching.

John heard Sherlock give a hum of displeasure as he glanced at a silver, ordinate dinner plate. The plate itself was easily one of the most expensive items John had seen outside of a museum; it was obviously an antique, it hadn't been polished in recent years, but a house crest was intricately shaped into the centre of the plate. At the top of the crest was a skull, underneath which was a hand grasping a wand, and lastly, three birds. The motto _Tourjours pur_ graced a banner that curved around the bottom of the crest. John knew enough to assume that the last word was 'pure' and that it probably belonged to a pure-blood family, but which one he couldn't even begin to guess as a Muggle-born. A single line of script was written on the folded piece of paper.

 _New present for you tomorrow, boys._

An ill feeling settled in John's stomach. It wasn't hard to guess what sort of thing Moriarty would deem a present. He picked up the card and flipped it over, but there was nothing else written.

Sherlock's long fingers flitted through the stacks of notes to the left of the plate, his scowl still in place. John moved to the right of the plate, his eyes caught on a photo pinned to the wall behind the desk. It was wizarding of course; the three subjects were outside of the shop, awkwardly situated beside each other with neutral expressions on their faces. A short, squat man shook hands with a handsome, young man with dark hair that didn't look much older than Hogwarts-age. The young man stared into the camera with cold eyes, his picturesque self giving a reluctant half-smile every few seconds. It wasn't those two people that John's eyebrows shot up for. The third man stood to the side of the two exchanging pleasantries. He was elegantly dressed in outdated robes and he stood ramrod straight, blinking occasionally to break the hard stare he gave the camera. Unmistakably, it was Jim Moriarty.

 _Wait, no_ , John thought, _it can't be._ The picture looked decades old, from the water-damage at the edges, the black and white background, to the old-style robes. He removed the picture from the wall and flipped it over to see the off-white backing.

 _Burke, Borgin, and Riddle. 1966._

He looked at the wizards again. Examining who he thought was Moriarty once more, he started picking out the differences. This younger Burke was similar in structure, but his face was lined more than the Moriarty he knew and seemed to be in his late 50s. His nose was more hooked and he seemed to be at least half a foot taller going by the shop door he was in front of.

"It seems as though Burke developed the spell we had the unfortunate pleasure of experiencing for an anonymous customer," Sherlock said, flicking the pages back into place and interrupting John's examination of the photograph. "He only referred to the customer as 'M'. Doesn't take a genius to figure out who that is, obviously. However, there was no mention of what it was or will be used for."

"Did Burke have a son?" John asked, his eyes still on the photo.

"None to my knowledge. Burke never married, much preferring to lock himself away with his work."

 _Doesn't that sound familiar,_ John mused. He thrust the photo to Sherlock. "Moriarty looks an awful lot like Burke, don't you think?"

Sherlock accepted the photo from John, his eyes darting across the image. A small smile teased the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

"Oh this is fantastic," Sherlock mumbled. He looked up at John. "Don't you see?"

John glanced down at the photo in Sherlock's hands; Sherlock waved it in the air. "I'm the one who pointed it out-"

"No, no, that much is obvious. They're certainly close relatives, probably father and son like you said, but I'll bother Mycroft for Moriarty's birth records later. Think, John, think. Moriarty is the same age as I am, do you ever remember seeing him at Hogwarts?"

John thought about commenting, _I don't remember seeing you at Hogwarts either, despite the fact you claimed to have gone there_ , but settled on answering his question directly. "No, I don't. He'd obviously be Slytherin, and someone like him would be hard to miss."

"Exactly! I don't remember him either," Sherlock exclaimed. "And that leaves the question, is Moriarty a squib or a wizard? If he was a wizard, why didn't he attend school? Did Burke know of him? I would think not, if Moriarty remained as an anonymous benefactor, so it can be assumed that it was a tryst of some sort." He snatched the plate and note up. "But I shall await for the birth records before I can make any definitive conclusions."

"Well," John said, his voice heavy, "we can assume one thing. There's going to be another body tomorrow."

Sherlock turned the note over in his fingers. "Yes, I believe there will be." He scanned the room. "It's interesting that this flat is untouched as it is."

"Burke hasn't been here in a while," John agreed.

"From what I know of him, it would take a great deal to get him to leave his flat. And yet, there's no sign of a scuffle, so he left willingly," Sherlock said. "I'll go to Bart's later in the morning and test the dirt I took from Burke's shoe to try to get a better sense of where he's been if not here."

John glanced at his watch. 2:50 a.m. "Sherlock, I've got surgery to do in the morning at Bart's, is there anything else you wanted to do while we're here?"

"No, I think we've seen all we're meant to see." Sherlock adjusted the plate under his arm, and John thought he heard him mutter, "... he's making it too easy…"

"What-" John started. Sherlock strode past him to the door. "Come on then, John, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will still make us a cup of tea at this hour in celebration of my release from solitary confinement."

"No, Sherlock, I'm going home." At Sherlock's blank look, John continued, "I'm knackered. I'm going to sleep as much as I can before the madness continues tomorrow, alright?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I suppose Mrs. Hudson will still make the tea for just me." Sherlock's face was expressionless, yet John had the suspicion that Sherlock had been caught up in thinking that it would be like old times, where he would drop everything in order to work on a case. It was amazing how much a stable relationship and a child on the way changed that so fast.

"Listen, I'll Apparate you back to 221B before I go back to my place," John compromised. "It'll save you the cab fare at least."

"I'll make my own way back, thanks. It's been three months. I'm not an invalid," Sherlock spat. He turned, his coat swaying with the movement as he strode across the room and opened the door. He beckoned John with a hand as it disappeared through the frame. With a long, suffering sigh, John trotted after him, leaving the dusty dungeon of a dark flat behind them and already dreading the loss of life that was sure to occur the next day. But there was still that small part of him that was thrilled for the chase and the disaster that was sure to occur, like Mycroft had pointed out years ago.

* * *

Molly let gravity pull her butt to the cushions of her sofa as she plopped with her tea in hand. Toby circled around her feet before he decided to jump on the sofa beside her, switching on his purr for love. She gave his chin a long scratch as she placed her tea on the small table in front of her, sighing at the lateness of the hour. She had to be at Bart's for 7:00 that morning, and she was already dreading dragging herself through the day with so little sleep. She was used to it though.

This wasn't the first night where she had been woken up by a nightmare and sat in front of the telly with her tea ready in hand for warm comfort. They've been her constant companions for years since around the time she met John. She wasn't sure what exactly had triggered them; it wasn't as though it was something that she had experienced as a child, besides a small bit of anxiety. Yet, she couldn't help but be unnerved at such chilling nightmares that she had to convince herself weren't coming true.

The first one she remembered only snippets of. A pool, a gun, and explosives tied to a man. As time went on, the dreams became clear, and she realized that there were people that she knew that appeared among the faces she didn't recognize. John frequented often, but he was always accompanied by the main player of most dreams: Sherlock. Sherlock running from a vicious dog on a dark, foggy moor, Sherlock fighting and killing his way through Moriarty's web, Sherlock and John frantically trying to diffuse bombs on the Tube car, just Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock -

Molly took a sip of her tea to banish her thoughts. Toby brushed her legs, purring, and she pet him absentmindedly. "Just an overactive imagination," she told herself, but even she could hear her hesitation. She took a larger gulp of her tea and cleared her throat. "Just a silly crush that's been blown out of proportion, because Sherlock doesn't do that -"

 _Scritch. Scritch. Scri-Scritch._

Molly's hands tightened on her mug as her gaze was drawn to the door. Someone was scraping something against the door's keyhole, and the doorknob was jiggling. Toby jumped at the noise and skittered away down the hall. Molly dropped her mug on the coffee table, her eyes frantically searching the room quickly for a weapon, something blunt that could be used in a pinch to hit someone on the head, or something sharp to piece a blood vessel in an instant. She was a doctor, she knew what to target, even if she worked solely on the dead.

Just as her hands settled on the lamp at her side, the door whispered a creak and swung open to reveal Sherlock, retracting a key from the door.

"S-Sherlock!" Molly gasped. She lowered the lamp and tried to calm the thumping of her overactive heart in her chest. Her eyes swept over the man that she hadn't seen in months. Sherlock's hair was longer and curlier, his skin paler than normal, but otherwise physically the same. Sherlock's only visible surprise to her being awake was a twitch of his eyebrow. His eyes mimicked hers and swept over her and the room, but unlike her, his eyes shone with deductions when they resumed eye contact.

"Molly," he greeted in his baritone. At the sound of his voice, Toby emerged from his safe-hold and swirled around Sherlock's feet. As Sherlock pulled off his shoes, he gave Toby a few pats. "You've had another nightmare."

Molly returned the lamp to its spot and sat down again. She bit her lip as she reached for and remained focused on her cooling tea. During the period of time Sherlock had pretended to be dead to the better part of Britain, he did return to London on occasion. He couldn't go back to 221B, he loathed Mycroft's place, so he ended up at her place. He took the couch while she kept her bed, she shoved food his way when she thought he needed it, and she sat in the living room with her tea when she had nightmares, just like now. He remained on the couch in his Mind Palace most of the time, but on occasion he did partake in the tea she made. She was surprised that he kept the key she gave him though.

"It's just another dream," she said, giving him a small smile. "Sherlock, why are you here? I thought you were at Mycroft's?"

Sherlock tossed his scarf and coat on a hook with a flourish of his hand. "Moriarty is back." He was matter-of-fact. "John and I were just at his opening act. 56 homeless dead."

Molly's fingers clenched at the news. Green light flashed in her mind's eye, and the reminder of its sick colour turned her stomach again. The dream was a fresh taint on her mind; it seemed so real, as though she had watched it happen personally. The screams of what had seemed like homeless people tore at her heart and a heaviness settled into her core. Surely it was a coincidence? Her having a dream of a massacre, only to have Sherlock confirm the heinous occurrence moments after waking? Molly took another gulp of her tea to settle the uneasiness that trickled into her bones. The thought of Moriarty back was not a pleasant one, and she couldn't quite shake the ring of his slick, slimy voice from her ears.

Molly glanced at Sherlock to see if he noticed the distress written heavily into her facial features, but he had turned back to his coat. Sherlock's hand snaked back into his inside jacket pocket and fished out a silver plate and folded piece of paper. Molly blinked, and wondered just how big those pockets were. She drew her face into as neutral as an expression as she could muster as he walked over to her. The plate clanged as he tossed it on the table, and he sat beside her on the couch. His fingers steepled under his chin as he focused on the objects in front of him.

"How come I wasn't called to work with the bodies?" Molly asked. She glanced at her mobile, but there were no missed calls or messages. "A massacre like that, every pathologist should have been called…" she trailed off at Sherlock's expression, which looked like he just ate a particularly sour lemon.

"Not our division," he spat. "It was taken out of the hands of Scotland Yard and given to incompetents."

Molly accepted his answer, even though she couldn't guess what 'division' Sherlock loathed that had taken his case, but perhaps he was merely put out that he wasn't as involved in it as he wanted to be. Instead, Molly looked at the plate Sherlock put on the table. The card was sinister, obviously hinting at more bodies, and the plate looked expensive. As nice as it was to see Sherlock again, his presence was … odd. His first day free of Mycroft and he visited her? Since he "returned from the dead" he had never been back to her place. She'd been engaged, so she never thought to suggest he could visit. No, that was a lie. Of course she thought about it. She might have been engaged, but even that relationship lived under the shadow that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Why aren't you home, Sherlock?" Molly inquired. She surveyed his face as she waited for an answer. She might not have possessed the same deductive skills he did, but she _knew_ him. She saw him when others did not.

"I need someone to bounce ideas off of," he replied, his eyes unwavering from their fixed position. "John's not available, since he's playing house with his pregnant wife. You are the next best option, seeing as I don't have my skull at my disposal.

"56 people dead, all just to enact his revenge on me for disabling his criminal web. That's not the endgame for him, this petty act, no. This plate proves otherwise. It's simple."

She watched his eyes tighten imperceptibly as he said that. His mouth flattened, and his fingers twitched. His chest rose and fell quicker than normal. He was nervous. She shifted closer to him. No, he was unsettled. He didn't want to be alone, but he didn't want to admit it.

"What's simple?" she prompted him.

Sherlock reached out a long finger and stroked the engraved _Tourjours pur_. "It's simple enough that John could figure it out, if he bothered to stare at the facts and apply the correct theory. But I don't have enough information to answer the question of why Moriarty would bother with a trivial game like this. It's below him."

Another look at the silver plate offered no solution to the game, but she couldn't help but notice the _boys_ on the card. "So maybe the game isn't just for you, Sherlock," Molly suggested. "All of the other times it was only about you. You were the one that had to solve all the puzzles." She picked up the card. "The card is addressed to both of you this time."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched to the sky. "A game with multiple players . . ." he breathed. His eyes fell on the plate. Like a rushing wave crashing to the beach, darkness swept over his features and dissolved his quizzical look.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Molly asked. She sensed the tension rolling off of his stiff shoulders.

His words came slow as they first tumbled from his mouth. "His first game he wanted simply to meet me. To test my skills and introduce himself." His frown deepened. "His second game was meant to be his magnum opus, but I evaded him in his quest to destroy my credibility and end my life. But now …" Sherlock snapped to his feet; Molly dove for her cold tea and held it in the air as he swept past her. He began pacing on the other side of the table. "The first time wasn't enough, no, he's mad I won. The Final Problem . . ." Sherlock froze on the spot, staring at the objects he brought in. "Has yet to be resolved."

The dark shadow cast over Molly from his looming figure, in addition to the hard angles of stress his body was formed in, couldn't help but send a foreboding shiver down her spine. She might not have all the full picture of the situation that had arose that night, but she remembered the fear in which she had found Sherlock consumed in all those years ago in her lab just before the Fall. She sensed that fear in him once again. But she couldn't help but notice that the time was slowly creeping closer to 4:00 am, and she had to be at Bart's in three hours. She knew that Sherlock worked better on his own; he didn't need her presence anyway.

"Um, Sherlock," she said, rising to her feet slowly. "I've got work in the morning, you know, and you're welcome to stay here of course, but I think I ought to get some sleep…"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, his eyes blank as though he had not heard her. He blinked, and the tension in his shoulders lifted. He gave her a quick nod. "Yes, yes, of course. I suppose it is rather late. I won't be sleeping of course, but I'll follow you in the morning to the lab. I have a soil sample from one of the victims that I need to analyze."

"Sure," she chimed, giving him a small smile. "No problem." She fumbled for her tea and started to make her way down the hall. Toby emerged from his hiding spot with a inquisitive mew and barrelled into her room. She paused in the doorway with her one hand curling around the door frame. She glanced back to her living room.

Sherlock had sunk into her couch, lying down with his hands steepled under his chin and his eyelids closed. She saw his lips quiver as they formed silent words, and the corners of his mouth were still turned down into a slight frown.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," she whispered, knowing that he probably never even heard her. She stepped into her room, her free hand closing the door behind her.

Before it clicked shut, she could have sworn his baritone breathed, "Goodnight, Molly."

* * *

 **A/N. Two words: medical school. But fret not, I will trudge my way through this. Eventually.**

 **If anyone wants to leave a comment, I'd be very happy to read it.**

 **Cheers,**

 **CWS**


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